Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light.

~John Webster

My boys giggled and splashed in the crowded pool, taking refuge from the bright August sun. Their latest pool games involved squirters and cannonballs. The carefree vibrant scene was a stark contrast to the dark and crippling words echoing through my cell phone.

“The CT scan showed a mass on your father’s pancreas,” my mom said as she struggled to get out the words.

My tall, strong fifty-nine-year-old father had suddenly started losing one to two pounds per day. Of all the possible causes I’d read about, this was the worst imaginable scenario. The deadliest of all major cancers, the pancreatic cancer prognosis was horribly grim. Most patients don’t live a year beyond diagnosis, with many taken in just three to six months.

After marrying young and working hard their entire lives, my parents were looking forward to retiring, traveling and spending time with their grandchildren: my sons, Kyle and Tyler, ages eight and four, and my brother’s daughters, Kaitlyn and Audrey, ages nine and six.

It was a devastating diagnosis.

The first oncology appointment was on my boys’ first day of school. Second grade and preschool were to be exciting school years that their beloved Pop wanted so desperately to see.

Every year on each grandchild’s birthday, he’d make a video highlight reel of the past year, and he was already hard at work planning a baseball theme. My dad and my boys shared a passion for baseball. Kyle earned a spot on the travel baseball team and would be starting in the spring. Tyler knew all the names and stats of Pop’s beloved Philadelphia Phillies.

My dad asked his oncologist if he would make it to Christmas. After reviewing the scans showing an inoperable tumor, the doctor pursed his lips and said with deeply apologetic eyes, “I’m sorry, Fred. Probably not.”

Since my mom was a teacher, with limited time off, I often accompanied my dad to chemotherapy. My brother, Mark, met us during his lunch break. We marveled as Dad sat there, hooked up to the IVs, chatting with the nurses. As a college professor, my dad loved hearing about their educational backgrounds, and they adored his pleasant demeanor. He made it easy to forget the grave reason we were there.

After the initial infusion at the hospital, he remained on chemotherapy for 48 hours in the form of a backpack with tubes hooked up to his chest port. We’d visit him at home, armed with movies and board games so he could relax. But before long, we’d find him in the driveway with the kids, pitching and chasing fly balls while wearing his chemo backpack!

During one infusion at the hospital, he decided that instead of fearing the Christmas holiday he might not live to see, he would plan to celebrate it in the biggest way possible.

– Excerpt from “Darkness & Light” by Jennifer Loomis Kennedy, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive, Live Happy. Copyright 2019.