“Randall’s instruction was that I hear it from you or one of the kids. Clear words. Remission. Successful treatment. Something that meant you weren’t still in immediate danger.”
I looked down at the letter.
The sentence blurred.
I wiped my eyes angrily and read on.
You are going to think I did this because I was a coward. You will be right, although probably not in the way you mean.
Three weeks before the doctor found your cancer, I learned I had pancreatic cancer. They had already found spots on my liver. Surgery was not going to save me. Chemotherapy might buy time. The first oncologist said months. The second said perhaps longer if I responded well. Neither one told me to make plans for next Christmas.
I sat down.
Not because I chose to.
My knees folded, and the little bench by the front door caught me.
