Dad shuffles out of his room. He’s become so thin. The bones from his shoulders jut sharply out of his 6’1” frame. He doesn’t notice me as he picks up his glasses and heads to the kitchen. Worried I’d frighten him, I make some noise and summon a cheerful sounding “How’d you sleep?” My Dad and I share a million qualities. One is an inability to sleep before a big day. And today was one of those “big days.” “Oh, so-so,” he replies. I understood. I slept the same. He flips on the TV.

“I’m thinking of changing my flight, what do you think?” I ask.

“It’s up to you. It sure has been nice having you around and your mom could probably use the help.”

Mom could use the help. Code for no one has a clue as to how Dad will react to the chemo.

“What time should we leave,” I ask.

“Probably a quarter til? I’ll drive, OK?”

Dad not sick probably shouldn’t be driving. His cataracts and neuropathic feet are reasons enough. But if cancer doesn’t kill him, stripping him of his independence will.

The waiting room is small with a few standard looking office chairs along two walls. Soon they call Dad back. I struggle to hold back tears, certain I won’t ever see the same man again. We give each other awkward pats on the arm.

Fifteen minutes later I ask a nurse how he’s doing. “He’s good. Want to see him?” Dad is in a room with three recliner-type chairs, a small window, and an ancient TV hooked up to an equally outdated DVD player. Colombo is playing.

Another nurse is hooking Dad up to tubes as a scary looking IV bag jiggles above his head. She’s talking about nausea. “How’s it going,” I ask. “Oh fine,” Dad replies. He has a chemo-mate. A heavy-set woman with a scarf wrapped around her head. I try making light of the entertainment and my audience laughs halfheartedly.

When Dad is finally released he looks the same. I ask him 30 different ways how he’s feeling and he insists he’s fine but hungry. He’d really like a sandwich.