Running On Empty...No More

In the wake of my father's death, I am stuck between yesterday and tomorrow, but not in a "seize the day" or "smell the roses" or "enjoying today" kind of way. I feel like time is just sitting here and I'm unable to move forward. I am clothed in a palpable weight of sadness. People mean well. I know they do, but I'm surprised by statements of how "blessed" and "lucky" I was to be with my father in his final days and hours. I don't feel blessed or lucky at all. In my world, if you did not have to watch your father suffer from the cruelest of diseases and then lose the battle, then YOU are the lucky one. It's not a gift that I no longer have this beautiful man in my life. I'm not lucky that we fought hard and had hopes of sharing another holiday together, only to have time run out. I'm not blessed that I got to hold dad's hand as he said goodbye because it means I'll never get to hold his hand again.

"Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." I Thessalonians 5:18 As my dad continues to receive daily treatments at Johns Hopkins, I am in awe of the people we meet every day -- from the 5 year old child with a rare form of cancer to the Congressman who suffered a stroke while having a brain tumor removed. These people are all fighting for their lives. And each one of these people has one thing in common -- they are thankful for today. I have spent countless hours trying to understand why my dad was (un)lucky enough to get such a rare form of cancer. Countless hours reading about it on the Internet. But these days, I am just like the 5 year old and the Congressman - simply thankful for today. Thankful for the time I have left with my dad. Thankful for the car rides to and from the hospital, where I get great marital advice from my father (like, "never share a bloomin' onion with your spouse"). Thankful that my

My father is the funniest man I've ever met. Sometimes, I laugh because his humor and wit are terrific and he has every intention of seeing me throw my head back and laugh like a hyena. Other times, he has no clue just how funny he is. Today, I experienced the latter. Dad is on chemo and radiation, and while that is not funny at all, his chemo chat today was no exception to hilarity. He is required to drink water prior to radiation -- not a ton of water -- but more water than he's accustomed to downing at one time. Mom and I suggested that he pretend it was beer, but he was having none of that. He turned to me, after chemo and as he's prepping for radiation, and said, "You know what the hardest thing about this is? Drinking all this damn water." Really, Dad?? The hardest thing is the water? I am still laughing at the look I got, and I snapped it just in time.

I have waited my whole life for my father to say "I love you." These words do not come easily to him, they never have. I know he loves me, but I never hear him say it. Recently, my father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He's not looked well since Christmas and on April 23, 2014, it was confirmed that he has the Big C. Since then, I have thought of nothing else in my spare time. Will he make it? Am I able to do anything for him? Will he suffer? Will he ever tell me he loves me? His PSA score was normal, but his Gleason rating is a 10. I knew nothing about either of these things until April 23, and now I know he has a very aggressive form of prostate cancer. With radiation, the doctor says, he could extend his life 5, 10 or 15 years. My dad is very positive and says "I couldn't ask for more than 15 more years." Then we see another doctor who feels the slides from the biopsy should be re-examined. He "sees something". Upon further examina