Instead of counting time down, I’m pushing time out

I’ve written to you before about my perception of time, and how it’s changed / has been evolving over the past couple of months. I’ve had this nagging feeling lately, that while I’ve become all “prognosis-accepting” and zen-like the past couple of weeks, I’m actually not being vigilant enough about my dad’s remaining time. Like, here I am, patting myself on the back for not crying all the time, getting my life together, and I’ve been so focused on ME (but also, I’m a Leo, I can’t help it) that I’ve taken my eye off the ball. 

We got his official prognosis at the end of August (where delusions of a cure for metastatic peritoneal cancer were smashed against the floor like a rotting pumpkin), which was two months ago. The doctors considered him a candidate for hospice, meaning they felt he had approximately six months left, asterisked by “you never know”. That meeting still seems so fresh that I feel like no time has passed, that we still have time with him, that he still has six months plus left. To be fair, he could still have six months plus left. He’s been feeling relatively better the past few weeks, so his death feels even less close than when he was chair bound. 

So my fear is this: I’m taking Thanksgiving and Christmas for givens, for granted. Eight weeks ago, I was hoping to get a last Christmas, but now I can’t imagine not having it. Five weeks ago, I was too scared to bring up Stock Show (in January), and the annual pilgrimage my family makes to the annual livestock show and rodeo, but now, the vision of sitting in the same seats we’ve had year after year is emerging from the fog. The spring still feels unknown, and I’m unwilling to imagine his death and funeral, but I wonder: will my dad see the tulips he and my brother planted last week, or will he be there to see the new tree we discussed planted in my back yard? 

These thoughts, and by extension, hopes, make the back of my throat tighten, and my eyes moisten. I’ve adjusted to the idea of the near term death of my father, but I think as each day passes, I see the rolling forward of his “close date” (his term, not mine), instead of the crossing out of each day. In reality, he could live for a few more years, by some inexplicable miracle, but I’m also too scared to allow for that possibility - that wish is far to grand, and feels delusional. I’d rather be prepared for the worst (which, to be honest, either way fucks with your psyche, on some level). 

What I admire most about my father, that even if he’s prepared, and accepted the worst, that his end is neigh, is the way he continues to live on - planting tulips for the spring - instead of giving up, shutting down. It’s like Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus”; why, if life is likely to contain suffering and then we die, don’t we just commit suicide? Why does Sisyphus continue to roll the boulder up the hill? Camus concludes that “the struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”  

So why do we continue to press forward when the outlook is bleak? Because there is joy in living, there is joy in the struggle. I admire my dad’s commitment to finding the joy in his life: flowers, warmer weather in Arizona, flying his airplane. 

I, too, then, endeavor to do the same - savor the beauty of life, and time with my dad, instead of fixating on “this might be the last time we do (fill in the blank)” and counting down last days. But because I plan for the future - I’ll be taking photos and videos along the way, in a non-creepy, non-sad sack way, as best I can. 

Did I just experience some personal growth via this essay?  

Did I just self-congratulate again?