It’s been an awful week at our house and we’re just coming up for air.

A couple weeks ago, Nick’s 92-year old dad (a spritely, adorable, funny guy, who lives in the ground floor apartment with his second wife) was diagnosed with cancer.  He’s turned bright yellow, including the whites of his eyes, because it’s in his liver – a shocking sight.

Nick has protected and cared for him for the past 30 years, the roles of father-son long reversed.  Six years ago, Nick’s dad had cancer and went through an operation but no one told him he had cancer because they were sure he’d “give up”, so they told him it was something else and he’s thrived beautifully until now.

But here it is again and the time-frame is finite.  He could have chemo and get maybe 8-10 months, or just keep on without and maybe have 4 weeks left.  The doctor said they ordinarily wouldn’t even prescribe chemo to someone his age, but he’s so young for his years, that they thought he could benefit, though the side-effects need to be weighed.

Nick and his dad’s wife have been wrestling about how much to tell him, hadn’t even mentioned the word cancer yet because, again, they feared he’d wither at the news.  Finally, because time is so critical, they took him to meet with the doctor yesterday who laid it all out, said you have to start chemo today or it’ll be too late.  After all these years protecting his dad, Nick was surprised how well his dad took it – he’s going to fight for the time he has left and started chemo last night.

I know, you’re probably all thinking “he’s 92, isn’t it his time to go?”  But there’s a huge amount of history and back story to Nick’s dad, whose own father (Mykola Kulish, a hugely famous playwright in the Ukraine) was arrested and jailed for being a “counterrevolutionary”.  They kept him for 10 years, until he was put to death by the government.

Nick’s parents, penniless, escaped to Argentina, though neither of them spoke Spanish and had certainly never lived in such poverty.  They had Nick while living there and when Nick was 10 years-old, they got on a banana boat to the USA.  Nick’s brother died a couple years ago, so once his dad goes, Nick will be the only one left to have experienced any of this family history.  It’s weighing on him so heavily…that he’ll be the “last one”.  My poor baby.

And because his Dad’s prognosis isn’t enough of a knife-twist in Nick’s heart, Nick’s son (a 25 year-old problem child who lives in another apartment in this house) has reached a crisis point, so his 22-year old sister came from Oregon this week to help him empty the apartment and take him to Portland with her, to live.  He’s never lived anywhere but Philly, so this’ll be a fresh start away from the old triggers here.  They’re flying out this afternoon.

So that’s the dealio here.  It’s been an anxiety-ridden, painful time that makes Running an almost inconsequential activity, though the joy it’s brought as an escape has been invaluable.

Before I close, I want to wish my American readers a fine holiday weekend and for my foreign friends, have a wonderful few days wherever you are.  Peace to all.

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