Stormy weather. And I'm being metaphorical here, people.

I went out for a walk today - my first time venturing any further than my parents' yard in six days. It was sunny and I grabbed my sunglasses as I headed for the road. It seemed like a nice day, so I didn't take a coat. By the time I was halfway done with my walk, it had started snowing big, wet, unexpected snowflakes. The sky was dark and I was cold and it was one of those bad surprises. That's pretty much how life has been the past month. Stormy weather. When I got back, my legs were itchy from the cold. And a few hours later, the sky is blue, and the snow didn't stick, and I'm cozy with a cup of coffee that undoubtedly will make me feel like a crazy person in an hour, but right now is hitting the spot.

Three or four weeks ago, I was on a conference call at work, and our receptionist brought me a post-it that said, "Your cousin R is here." I rushed to the lobby because my cousin had never stopped by before and I wasn't expecting any bad news and it seemed like something bad was happening. My cousin R told me my dad had taken a turn for the worse, and I should call home to get details. I was worried. On that call home, I learned that my dad's cancer had spread to his lungs, and there were more spots in other parts of his body that we didn't know about, and the doctor had given him a prognosis of six months.

At that point, I didn't think my Dad had tons of time left. There wasn't going to be any teaching my unborn kids how to fish in our pond. But I thought he had a lot more time than six months. And, things have changed a lot since three or four weeks ago.

Dad's cancer has progressed and now he's really sick. He's in bed and he's on Methadone and morphine and he isn't eating, pretty much isn't drinking, either. It has only been a little over a year since he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer caused by acid reflux.

Dad told me on the call that he wanted me to keep living my life. (Read: please don't quit your job and move hme and stare at me all day.) He said that he knew what he was faced with when he got the diagnosis, that the odds weren't good. Dad seemed like he had accepted where he was at. I hadn't at that point, and I stood on the front porch at my work with my cousin next to me and cried, well sobbed, really, as I heard the news. My Dad told me he knew what I was going through because he lost his dad, too. All the things he said made me feel better. He was so mature and fatherly and rational. Made me wish he'd be around to help me get through this.

I told my Dad I was sorry this was happening and I wish there was something I could do. I'm kind of a control person. I like being able to impact things, and knowing what to expect. Control people don't like cancer - not that anyone does - but uncertainty and inability to change things really don't work for me. Dad said I didn't need to be sorry, that there wasn't anything I needed to do other than what I'd already been doing. And when all you're able to do is send cards, watch bad TV without complaining, and do the occassional vacuuming, that is not very comforting.

So, that was the snow on my walk.

Now it has gotten even harder. My Dad's gone from being able to travel on a day trip a few weeks ago to what you can probably only classify as dying. He knows we're here and talks to us in little sentences or single words. He's on morphine all the time. People are stopping by to pay their final respects and we're calling relatives so they can say their goodbyes. I almost feel bad that people have to read this - even people that don't know my dad - but it's way worse with a front row seat.

I read in the hospice pamphlet my mom gave me that my dad has one foot in this world and one foot in the next world and that he's doing a lot of internal processing until he gets the spiritual energy needed to pass on. People have told me it is sacred to be here. That is all well and good and sort of comforting, but I'd much prefer a long walk on the beach with a Mai Thai than to be finding comfort in a hospice pamphlet or to be present for this, sacred or not. It's an understatement, but I really wish this wasn't happening.

My sister's friend K gave her a card that says something like: Sometimes life gives you lemons and you can make lemonade. And sometimes life pulls down your pants, runs a power sander across your naked hiney, then pours lemon juice on your raw, abraded butt. In that case, a cool citrus drink wouldn't really help, but you've got to hang in there anyway.

So, we're all hanging in there. My family is amazing. Our friends are amazing. This would all be kind of fun except that I don't like where we're all headed and I don't like seeing my Dad like this - in pain or knocked out by pain meds. But since I can't do much about it, I'll just go hang out some more with my dad and watch some old home videos of my sister catching frogs in the yard and my dad roasting a pig at a family reunion. 'Cause there's not much else I can do.