Driving to Lake George

7:30 am comes and goes. Still no sister in sight, the one who is driving to Lake George and bringing me along to see my Dad. I call. Things just take longer than anticipated. Finally she pulls into the parking lot and we tuck my suitcase and a satchel of little things for Dad into the back of her van. I buckle up with that peculiar combination of excited anticipation and fearsome worry about what I will encounter.



All reports make Dad out to have one foot in the grave with the other not far behind. I have not seen him since Easter last year, just before my treatments began. I intentionally visited every family member I could back in April/early May, knowing it might be a long time before I would be able to travel again. I half worry that he will die before we get there and I will not have time to say goodbye much less the important things like how much I love him despite the differences we have had over the years.



They have confirmed that Dad's cancer, which appears to have started in his bladder, has spread to his lymph system, his prostate, and his lungs. It is the lung part that is the most difficult to deal with as he fights for every breath with lungs consumed by cancer. The lung specialist who did the bronchoscopy said there was not one spot cancer free in Dad's lungs. He cannot talk much without becoming oxygen deprived, and Mom does her best to limit visits to about five minutes so Dad won't need to talk.



What will I find when I at long last arrive? Dad has always been a strong, stoic man, not given to expressing pain or discomfort nor seeking medical aid. The very fact that he agreed to go to the emergency room on several occasions indicates that things are bad. My sister and I talk throughout the four hour drive. She has an appointment with our parents' lawyer to make sure everything is in order before Dad is unable to address any outstanding issues.



The lawyer is kind and understanding. Everything is in good shape. This is not a conversation I would have arranged and I hate having to have it. At last we grab lunch and head to the hospital. It is a brief visit. Mom does not want us to tire him, but he is coping. He seems glad to see us though we do not talk much. He still looks like Dad, just tired. We leave to get settled into the hotel and deliver things to the house.



A long day. We end by singing to Dad hymns that I remember him selecting often for services, hymns that at some point or another he mentioned that he liked. Mighty Fortress. O the Deep Deep Love of Jesus. The Doxology. Dad closes his eyes and moves his head in time to the music. He taps his fingers on the tray table. He smiles. It is good.