Dad grinned. “Let me dream, Nora.”
We laughed.
But the year I turned twenty-eight, our plans came to a sudden halt.
After weeks of exhaustion, pain, and tests, Dr. Harris delivered the diagnosis.
“It’s cancer.”
He dreamed about our future projects.
“But I have orders to finish.”
“We need to talk about treatment, Nora.”
Dad came over that afternoon.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t know.”
Our plans came to a sudden halt.
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
Mom arrived with groceries.
“You need to stop eating sugar. And those workshop chemicals can’t be helping!”
“Mom, my doctors are handling this.”
My sister Paige called occasionally, usually distracted by her children. My brother Dean helped with errands.
It’s cancer.
But Dad was there every day.
“Appointment tomorrow?”
“Eight.”
“I’ll drive.”
“Dad, you have work.”
“And you have cancer. I win.”
We’ll figure it out.
***
Fourteen months of chemotherapy nearly destroyed me.
