There are phone calls, and then there are phone calls.

The first round of phone calls I made were the un-fun variety. They were the ones that exposed Dad’s Klingon for what it was, and it was not fun.

But today’s phone calls were the nice ones. They were the ones that said, “Dad’s great! The hormone therapy is working, his PSA numbers are going down quickly (a good, good thing) and he’s pretty healthy all things considered! Why, the oncologist said he’ll be kicking around years!”

Of course, no guarantees. He could still be hit by bus.

So, while his little Klingon is going to give him some headaches, and he’ll have to deal with man-boobs and hot flashes and the Home and Garden channel for a while longer, he’ll finally let go of his subscription to Guns and Ammo which I’ve been nagging him about for years. And he’ll always and forever be a Stage 4 Cancer guy, but at least we’ve got a lot of good dinners in our future, and, if the last couple of weeks are telling, some really good laughs.

Because he sure has been laughing an awful lot lately.

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