Untitled.

Death is a strange thing.

The doctors say that the tumor removal last year was not completely successful, that his lymphatic system has been damaged and the calcium level in his blood has become too high, making his heart susceptible to irregular beats.

He's too old for chemotherapy. His body can't take it, they say.

He's too weak to walk.

He's 94. He was riding bicycles last year. Now his legs are too weak.

But is there some form of exercise that he can still do?

I don't think you quite understand... his legs are too weak to carry him. He can't walk.

He seems to have come to accept it.

He was depressed at first, Dad said. He was a totally different person. He felt helpless. But I think he's come to terms with it. He... he's at... the stage of life... He's at his final stage of life. He's not suffering.

He has several options, they say.

He can stay at the hospital and stay under supervision. He can stay at home, and we can hire a caretaker. Or, he can be admitted to a hospice.

A hospice? Isn't that just like a nursing home for sick people?

A hospice is where sick people go when they've given up medical treatment. They may find further treatment of no use, or they don't want the pain. They are taken care of at the hospice so that it won't be painful when they leave.

I had less to say than to ask.

I had as much guilt as, if not more than concern.

A phone call a week earlier and I could have spoken to him, instead of finding out that he's been in the hospital.

Grief is a strange thing.

Dad seemed to speak with such exactitude, such factual acknowledgment, though not without feeling. His words were clean, his sentences tightly bound. He spoke, unwavering... accepting.

This is a man my dad has known and loved all his life. This is a man I know through a meager collection of memories and childhood visits.

Yet I felt like I was in pieces. I silently wiped a few tears, choked back a few sniffles. I tried to mirror Dad's solidity.

"I will have Kevin bring some photos when he visits," I say. Then I think, I will write him something. For the first time in my life. I will write him something. This time, it won't be too late.

Please don't let it be too late.