I pulled up to the house and thought about my mother, in her 60’s, shoveling the driveway, shoveling the walk, calling her after the snow storm and she was shoveling angry upset, “you don’t see him with his clothes off,” remembering him in the hospital, drugged and wanting out, pulling his gown off, exposing himself, unaware, my disgust at the situation, the juxtaposition slapping me in the face.  I thought about being trapped indoors, the fishbowl of a house, designed by you, now imprisoning you; a man who worked and worked and worked, now 6 months in and your body is gone—you never once napped in your life.  You were sleeping when I got there, no one should have a card table in his bedroom to eat dinner.  I looked at your body and imagined the bones beneath your sweats, reminding me of grampa, battling dual cancer, reminding me of Hannah, battling emotional cancer—bones protruding, wan, life denied.  I brought my books upstairs and tried to make sure the plastic bag didn’t make too much noise.  An hour later the toilet flushed and I came in and asked if I could heat up the soup mom left for you, and you told me a bedroom was no place to eat.  We went downstairs and I heated up the soup.  There was too much solid food and I watched your hands shaking the ladle, returning the chunks of chicken, how difficult it was for you to lift the bowl to the microwave, thinking you pressed start when you actually pressed clear.  I moved us to the back room and put the golf channel on and tried to impress you with my accomplishments, doing my best to erase the underachiever, the inconsiderate, the wild, from your mind.  You said, “that’s great.” And I noticed your eyes were shut and you were exhausted again.  It had only been ten minutes and I understood why mom had left dinner upstairs.  I tried to involve you with my homework, to furnish an opportunity for you to reclaim your papahood, but I was rambling and you were tired, and you said again, that’s great, even though it didn’t fit.  We were trying to watch golf, but the basketball game was slow, foul after foul in attempt to fight through a 10 point difference, wishing the team would just give up, they only have 1 minute left and my father wants golf.  You asked me to get you ice cream and I defrosted it and broke it into tiny chunks so you could chew it.  and when I got you the orange and offered to peel it, you barked at me, and after a failed attempt asked me to get you a knife, blaming the thin orange peel.  The basketball game finally ended.  I was knee deep in a case study decision tree, wondering if merck should enter into a license agreement when the golf tournament did a 2 minute special on a golfer who was losing his father to cancer.  He talked about how close they had become, the I love you’s that were never said revealed themselves; I thought you would change the channel and you didn’t.  I wish I had had the courage to say, “please don’t die on me.  We need you.  I need you.” But I didn’t.  I pretended to read, not wanting to glance up, instead, I offered you a blanket because I felt that you were cold.  We talked superficially until you asked me about Egypt, and how much money the US has loaned them, and alluded to the risk we could be at during this turmoil and all I wondered about was, will you even be here to see the outcome.  You went to the bathroom, I don’t know what that entails now that you have a bag but I all I could smell when you came back was a dirty diaper and I hated the world for doing this to you.  I put the tuna fish sandwich you didn’t eat in a plastic bag to put in the fridge and found 10 other uneaten meals and wondered about my mom at the grocery store and her having to buy mass amounts of plastic wrap.  The trash was full so I brought it to the garage and hated myself for never taking the trash out when I was younger.  I brought you a bottle of water and mustered up the, so I’m glad you got through radiation and it’s over and you said you didn’t make it and quickly corrected yourself with, everyone makes it through radiation.  Later, when I left, I called mom and told her that you talked about making it through radiation and she simply replied, we’ll see if he can make it through this next week.  Back in the tv room, you put the blanket on I had offered 2 hours before and I said I was happy you were going to florida on Friday, that you would be able to sit in the sun, to not be trapped in the house, cold, inactive, watching tv, which you hate and I thought about the old school radio that mom had left by your dinner plate in the bedroom upstairs and how angry it must make you.  You told me about the mortgage people charging you 162 dollars for a late fee because you wrote the check 12 cents short and what I really got upset about is that you would never mess up even a penny when doing the bills before.  When it got dark I knew I needed to go and I got you more soup and water and got your phone next to you and gave you a hug and wondered if it was the last time I would see you.  We all feel like you are going to florida to die.  I got in the car to leave and took a full clonopin—I just knew the car ride home would be difficult.  I panicked the whole way home on the highway, alternating between deep breathing, singing the alphabet, opening the window and letting the cold air hit me.  A car pulled onto the highway with its flashers on and my heart jumped through my chest and my vision blurred.  I tried to coax myself by dissecting the trip in legs, putting the sun visor down to deflect the light from the oncoming traffic, my chest heavier tighter, wishing I didn’t wear a bra, checking my heart rate, opening the window again, taking another clonopin, hating the oldsmobile with the flashers, assuring myself I could make it even though my vision was skewed and I was certain of having a heart attack and hating myself for allowing my mother to do this all on her own.  You said you were catching a flight on friday at 10, I thought about my meetings, my classes, and wondered how I would say good bye.  At the fucking airport???  Flashback to last weekend, when the sun was setting and knowing I can’t drive in the dark and not being able to tell you I couldn’t stay and watch the football game.  I went to mom in the living room and confessed I couldn’t tell you I was leaving.  She told me how much she hates tv, how much she hates football before she packed up her bills and paperwork and moved to the tv room and told you I had to get home.  Your face was like a child’s.  disappointed, sad, unfair and I couldn’t stay any longer because I needed to get into the car and scream and cry and damn everyone.  Our phone conversations are awkward and short.  I can’t talk about it and neither can you.  You yell at the golfers for their lousy shots and all I can remember is 6 months ago and you playing your last round of golf, 3 holes, that’s it.  2 weeks after the diagnosis I promised to help out with winterizing the boat.  I got to the north shore and you were already at the boat yard.  mom needed to talk, so we talked, and you called demanding to know where I was, why I wasn’t at the boat yard yet and I got there ten minutes later and realized you were cold, that you needed help.  I let you sit in the cold for 45 minutes.  Unforgivable.  Just like me not staying for the football game.  It was june, fathers day, we went to dinner, did family photos and I was jealous of my sister, having a family but I thought to myself, this is something to look forward to, family, when family has been a tough notion for all of us.  A few weeks later we all had a bbq and a boat ride and you were acting strange.  We went too fast in the ocean, too close to the rocks, me holding on to charlie’s life jacket as we flung in the air over an abrupt wave, mom was crying, yelling at you, telling you to stop, to go slower, to turn back to the harbor and you were angry.  When we got back to the house, I looked at you and you were pale and I thought to myself, you need to tell mom to tell him to get a physical, but I didn’t or I forgot.  A month later I came by—the day before grad school started and you weren’t home.  It was a Sunday morning and where could you be?  Mom said you weren’t feeling good, that you decided to go to a walk-in clinic.  My heart sank.  I asked mom why she wasn’t with you and she shrugged off the notion, like he’d let me take him to the doctors.  I asked where you were and she said the hospital, that they had a walk-in clinic, that you went to get checked because you had digestive problems.  My heart was still sinking.  The hospital was on my way home and just like we pulled up to the dark house when I was 11 and I knew hannah was in serious trouble, I knew, you, of all people, wouldn’t go to a walk-in clinic, on a Sunday, for a stomach ache.  I pulled into the hospital lot and went to the registration desk and asked where the walk-in clinic was and wasn’t really surprised when they said they didn’t have one.  I thanked them and walked towards the ER and asked a blue scrub if you were here and she brought me to a curtained room and I overheard you telling the doctor that something was wrong.  I moved away from the curtains for you or maybe me and when the doctor left I poked my head in and you were shocked and angry and I was too, you in that bed, in that gown, looking so frail—I had no conception of real frailty at that point.  After five minutes you barked at me and told me to leave, that I had to get ready for school.  But you told me to call mom and let her know that you’d be a little while.  I gave you a hug and left and called mom and told her something was really wrong, that she needed to forget about the dinner party you two were having that night, that I felt something was really wrong and that she needed to come, to come now.  I called her every 45 minutes for 8 hours in a row and got sent straight to voicemail.  Around 10pm she called, it isn’t good news, in the same tone she asked me to watch the dogs when hannah was missing the night we pulled up to the dark house.  I knew it was all about to change. I knew it was all about to change.  I hugged you harder tonight than I have hugged you before, probably in my life, worried I would break your bones, grimace your face, but I know, I know, there are only a few more hugs left.  My chest tight again.  Fuck mentorship.  Fuck decision trees.  Fuck keeping house.  Fuck eating right.  Fuck patience and tolerance and love.  His hands shaking the soup bowl to the microwave.  Fuck microwaves.