03/22/98

His muscle tone is lousy. His hair's falling out. Walking is an effort. His voice is shot from the strength of the chemotherapy. Yet he insists he's fine, doing so well he expects to be playing golf in a few weeks. Who am I to argue with my father if he says he's okay? I tease him a little, asking if the hair in his underarms is falling out, too, and he seems struck by the notion. After a pause he informs me that he still has hairy underarms. I'm tickled at the thought of him checking. We discuss my new job, my plans to finish my degree, my hope to pursue graphic design. He becomes weepy when telling me about all the cards and flowers and good wishes he receives daily, then tries to pass it off as a side effect of the chemo. I tell him you can't do good and be a friend to so many for so long without them wanting to do the same for you when you need a little help. His voice trails off while he gets control of himself. My eyes fill with tears, listening to my father, hearing the things he doesn't say. The phone line is clear tonight. Outside, one by one, the stars blossom in the dark sapphire sky.