My dad and I just spoke. We didn’t connect this weekend. This morning was a ‘make good.’
Radiation continues to kick my butt hard affecting my stomach and stamina. Only four more days of treatment then a week or so for my system to reconstitute itself. Eight weeks of chemo follow (which I tolerated well before) and donezo.
My dad and I talk about hospitals and treatment because it’s a subject we have in common.
“Geoffrey,” he began, “when you check in the hospital and they greet you by name you know you’ve been there too many times.”
My father is a schmoozer and a flirter. He has a joke or story for any occasion. You can’t be in his presence and not know who he is.
And with one poorly working eye and essential tremors every younger woman is attractive. And, basically, at 91 every woman is younger. Stef makes sure I remember his former primary care physician, “looks like Ingrid Bergman.”
Friday, as I left the “Rotisserie of Death,” I stopped to say goodbye to the radiation techs, AnnMarie (head nurse), Jessica, (dietician) and the three young women at the reception desk.
I paused as I walked out the door. Holy crap, I’m my dad.
“Daddy, I am you,” I told him Friday evening on the phone. He laughed.
You really don’t get to pick your role models. It just happens. I lucked out.