While searching through my father’s closet for the right shirt and suit for his burial, I realized yet again how lucky I have been that my Dad let me get to know him as a man in addition to being my father.

Going through another man’s closet reveals a lot about his small habits and idiosyncrasies, and today instead of being filled with sadness and regret during my search, I was happy to learn more about my father as I shuffled the clothing around and chose the right tie and belt for him.

I had no unresolved issues with my Dad, and I have no regrets, other than we did not have the time to spend together as father and son in the retirement that for him never came.

I will write a fitting memorial to him soon, when I’m not completely occupied with the details that modern life imposes even upon death, but until then, music from my favorite artist will serve to convey my loss:

Father, Son by Peter Gabriel

This is an MP3 file that should open your default player. Please don’t save the file, but instead buy the album from Amazon if you like it.

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At 11:20PM on 25 December 2005, I signed the do-not-resuscitate order.

At 4:25AM on 26 December 2005, William Martin Grant, my father and the best man I will ever have the honor to know, died.

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Despite the deep concern and warnings the ER doctor gave us, my father survived the night. Given that repeatedly we are told that except for the problems caused by the cancer, he has the appearance and health associated with a 50 year-old man instead of one who is 63, perhaps this should not be a surprise, but the gravity with which the doctor described the situation last night tells me that it is the stubborn will of my Dad more than anything else that is keeping him going.

Regardless of how frustrating it is for those who know me, at least I can say I come by the stubbornness honestly. My Mom is stubborn about small things, my Dad waits until it is critical, then he doesn’t quit.

We are far from out of the woods. While my father is stable, he is still in the Intensive Care Unit critically ill with yet another blockage in his intestines, fluid around and inside one of his lungs, and a host of other problems that while not immediately deadly need to be resolved before he could even be described as at the point where he is recovering from this latest setback.

Realistically, I doubt he will gain enough strength to start the second round of chemotherapy that the oncologist says ins the best option to treat the recurrent cancer. I have made sure my Dad is aware of what I see of the situation, and he also knows I will support anything he decides. His decision right now is to fight for any chance, and I will support that until he tells me differently.

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While checking on the dog at my parents’ house, I received an urgent call from my mother to return to the hospital.

Without going into the grim details, the emergency room doctor reviewed with me a two page list of everything that was failing or otherwise wrong in my father’s body. The doctor was very compassionate while still being straightforward, telling me that my father was the most ill person he had seen in a very long time, and that there was a strong possibility that he would not last the night.

To say that the oncologist we visited on Thursday was a bit too cavalier with the maladies that we described my father suffering in the days before the visit is putting it more than mildly.

At 4:00AM, they finished stabilizing my Dad to the point where he could be moved to the Intensive Care Unit.

Now, I am back at my parents’ house, retrieving the medication that my mom must take, checking on the dog, and making a small breakfast for my mother. The first time we can visit my father in the ICU is at 9:00AM.

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I have just returned from the emergency room, where my father is now, receiving saline and blood to increase his blood pressure. We called an ambulance after he passed out twice this evening.

I don’t know if he will ever get strong enough to receive the chemotherapy, but he did say “yes” when asked if he wanted to be resuscitated if his heart stopped or put on a respirator if he stopped breathing, so he hasn’t given up hope.

Short of a miracle, I don’t see much hope beyond a few months, and those spent in pain. Whatever he decides, though, I’m behind him 100%, regardless of what anyone else wants. It is his life, and I will defend at all costs his right to decide how it ends.

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My father is much weaker than I was expecting, and after our visit to the oncologist today I have an idea of what to expect, especially after my private conversation with the doctor in the hallway out of earshot of my parents. While there is a possibility that the altered chemotherapy program that my father will start in two or three weeks once he has regained at least some strength may attack the cancer and possibly induce a remission, the gestures the doctor used to indicate the extent of the cancer covered the entire abdomen, despite the indirect way he was giving this news to my parents.

While I hope for better, I doubt that my father will live to see the end of this summer, and that life will not be comfortable.

I also fear I may have to play the “bad cop” role in a family drama that will be unnecessary, but will occur anyway.

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