knowing that life goes on from here is almost as scary as the status quo

you know you're sick in the head when you are dieting so you look pretty at a future funeral for a death that hasn't happened yet.

but you are already writing the eulogy in your head, aren't you? thinking of the future in the past tense when it is still the present. the moments that have yet to happen have happened in your head, haven't they?

stop mentally killing him off when he hasn't died. he isn't gone yet, and maybe you can save him yet, that is, if you start treating him like a man and stop treating him like a corpse.

---

he went to the hospital three days ago, and now all of a sudden, everything's changed. gone from terrible to dire. suddenly, he can barely stand up or walk up stairs after spending three days at a place that's supposed to make him feel better. last week he drove the car, and this week he can barely walk?! but it's all in the mind, ain't it? when you're told you're dying, you begin to die.

maybe it's too late, maybe you're deluding yourself, but maybe just maybe, you can change things. you've read stories about how people who had months to live and no options left changed their fates with their heads. it all starts with a positive attitude.

He has never looked so small in all the years I've known him, but
his face looks longer now,as the bags below his eyes slowly invade his cheeks, ever determined to stretch beyond their natural borders.

Sometimes he looks like he's sleeping with his eyes open. It appears as though there is an invisible film cultivating on his iris, a second eyelid so he might sleep even while awake.

These days, Daddy sleeps a lot, and he no longer tends to part his hair. My whole life, he was unpredictable, a shook-up soda bottle of soul. But if there was one thing I could count on, no matter what, it was that his hair was always perfect. It was always neat and proper and hard with hairspray, down to the very last strand. He kept a spare bottle of hairspray and a comb in the safety compartment of our minivan, but he would mind his hair even if he wasn't going out, even if he wasn't seeing anything but his breakfast and his newspaper all day, he would endure his lengthy morning ritual all the same, taking more time than my mother to get ready.

Two days ago he voted in the primaries, and he drove for the first time in over a month, ever since the drugs stopped working. It was only a five minute drive to the school where we vote, but my mother called me up all the same just to share the good news.

I remember doubting that he'd make it to the polls, thinking to myself how he might never get to use the new paper ballot system, and how much this bothered me. I was relieved he had this chance, and all the same appalled at how such a thing was a relief. I was struck by the importance of there being one less potential never in his life, but mostly, I was just disturbed that it was a potential last.

Not quite what I signed up for

The leaf refused to move. Even as I stored air in my cheeks like a hamster hoarding its food, sucked it in until I couldn't fit anymore, opened my mouth, and blew with everything I had. Even then it would not budge.

Eventually, I stopped trying, but the wind decided to teach me a lesson, moving the leaf effortlessly, gracefully as I'd imagined I might be able to. It flitted off into the distance, letting itself be controlled, giving into this wind, an invisible, but palpable and magnificent force. I could feel it on my skin, grazing my hairs, one by one, until they stood up on end, erect from the stroke of invisible cold.

---

When I saw it, I had gone for a run to take my mind off of things, but my thoughts would not have any of it. They quickly distracted my legs from their task, and my body gave in to a bench overlooking the East River. There was a leaf on the table in front of me, taunting me. Something told me I could have power over it. Control something, anything. But even this, a solitary leaf, would not fold to my breath.

I remember sitting there feeling angry that the wind could move it and I couldn't. I remember listening to my ipod, afraid that if I didn't finish songs in their entirety, that something bad would happen. I remember thinking that I had to get up at exactly 7:11 pm and return home, or once again, something bad would happen. I remember feeling like there were bungee chords tied to my legs and to somewhere else, a tree maybe, and that every time I tried to run, this giant rubber band was pulling me toward a hypothetical destination; it didn't matter where, only that it was not quite where I was going. Not quite what I was planning. Not quite what I'd signed up for.

I should be inspired. I should be in pain. I am not inspired. I am not in pain. I have not cried. I have not written. I have not owned the words. I have not owned the thoughts. I have not been thinking. I have been sleeping. I have avoided self examination. I do not look at my reflection and thus do not see how much I've aged.

I do not see what I am seeing. I see only what I am not seeing, if anything at all. I see a memory, a figment of imagination. I conceive only of the future I entered in the spreadsheet of my mind. You are always in my future even as you are disappearing from the present. There you are, there we are, see? In a little cell in a little column on this little screen, lingering inside all the time.

You are at my graduation. You are at my wedding. You are there when your grandchildren are born. You are there and there and there, in this box.

A box. A box. what box? A coffin. No such thing.

I am not in pain. I am not tricking myself. I am not in denial. I am...

Whatever this is.

I want to write about it but I don't know where to start. I want to write about it but I cannot see the screen. I want to write about it but my vision is blurry sans contact lenses. I want to write about it but my mind is blurry too.

I want to write about walking through Cusco's Plaza de Armas in awe of what this place has come to mean to me. I want to write about how everything looks exactly the same as when I got here but feels precisely the opposite: Cusco's blue sky, the cafe, the cobblestones, Real McCoy, the cathedral, the fountain, Los Perros. I want to write about how it's all the same but isn't. I want to write about seeing emptiness after having been so full...fulfilled that is...in such a short period of time. I want to write about waking up to his alarm at 5 AM, throwing on my clothes, hugging him goodbye, and seeing him into the darkness. I want to write about waking up again, at 9:15, and straining to hear his airplane taking off over Cusco.


It wasn't only sex. It was holding each other and caring and arguing and talking politics and sharing dreams and telling secrets. I don't know what it was, really, but I know this much is true: it's going to be one hell of a memory...

Whatever happens upon my return to New York and his to Britain, I hope we meet again.

These days, I cannot turn my mind off. When I walk, dance, shop, eat, sing....I think of you, my father.

My thoughts will not go into remission until you do. IF you do.

It's hard to be here and easy to be here at the same time. I think of you more because I'm thousands of miles away and I cannot see you, yet I think of you less. I have so much to think about, so much to take in, my mind is overwhelmed. Flooding with everything...

Even so, I dream of you almost every night. The other night, Dr. House was real and was going to give you curative surgery.

It's getting closer. I wonder how skinny you've gotten. Do you now weigh less than I do?

I wonder if you will make it to my graduation. I wonder if I want you to. At first, all I wanted was for you to fight because I believed you could. Now I wonder if you can...if it's worth it, for you to suffer like this. This disease is horrible. It kills you before you die. The treatment is as bad as the condition. Maybe worse.

The chemo was changed again. It's one of the last ones left to try. You probably have more than 6 months. Then what? This is happening so quickly but also slowly. I can't explain. I can't be articulate...it makes sense in my head but is coming out like vomit on the page. My mind throws up every day.

At least Peru makes me tired and I can always fall asleep here.