The day after Thanksgiving, my parents took the well-beaten path toward Minneapolis to Dad’s chemo. We knew the drill well, a day-long, arriving home after dusk, tired and nauseous. I called Mom to check in around noon and she kept it oddly short, factually stating they were on their way back already. I figure she didn’t want her tears to give the days to come completely away before she was in arms reach to catch my tears. She did give instructions to gather at their home, and we were all old enough to know to listen when mom speaks. They walked in, Mom’s eyes giving clues of the news to come. She tried to smile and while it was beautiful as ever, the glisten seemed to be on a dimmer switch and turned all the way down. When you know the words to follow will change your whole world, how do you ask?
‘The cancer has spread from the left side of the brain to the right. The doctors have exhausted all efforts. We’ve decided we’re going to finish Dad’s race this side of heaven together at home.’
Sobs broke out. The kind where you have to force yourself to take a deep breath between in order to stay afloat. We wanted the finish line to be years from now after Dad had walked me down the aisle and rocked his grandbabies to sleep. But we were told the finish line was in sight and to savor every last step. We didn’t know if we would walk minutes or miles, but we promised each other to finish the race hand in hand.
