My dad has cancer

“My dad has cancer,” wasn’t a phrase I expected to get use to saying. He’s always been active, strong, energetic. The kind who should retire, but won’t because that sounds bo-ring.

And those words, which choked me up when I first trained my brain to absorb them, now tumble out of my mouth with that matter-of-fact ease that only comes with repetition.

“Sorry, I have to flake on your book club. My dad was just diagnosed with cancer, so I am flying out this weekend to be with the family.”

So here I am. Not knowing exactly what to do to be helpful, I’m just kinda here now—helping keep the kitchen clean, just being around. Saving the day one clean dish at a time.

Feeling a bit like that emoji—the shrugged-shoulders girl, head cocked, and arms up in resignation. IDK what’s happening. But not her purple turtleneck. If she’s wearing a turtleneck? IDK, I don’t like purple.

Sometimes I catch myself standing over my dad. He’s minding his own business, looking to relax in his recliner. Maybe catch up with that sleep he missed out on from the night before.

Before I can stop myself, I’m hovering. Wide-eyed with concern, aiming a firehose of questions in his direction: How do you feel? Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?—what about dried fruit, do you want the mangoes? I really like the dried mangoes. No sugar added to the mangoes. So, they’re good. And organic. Organic mangoes.

I can’t shut up about the mangoes. Maybe that’ll just scare the cancer from his body.

It dawns on me that I forgot to cancel my hair appointment. Andrew was going to tackle my roots. And then demand I give him a hug before he upsells me on more product.