“You have no idea what a pleasure it is to go to the bathroom,” Dad said. “A completely underrated experience.”

This is the sort of comment that peppers our conversations these days. We still talk about the usual things, whatever they are, but in the case of his illness it’s his relief at not being burdened with medical apparati that he is particularly keen about.

“No, really.” He’s almost dreamy about it. “People completely underestimate the value of being able to take a whiz on their own until it’s lost to them. I really appreciate peeing now.”

We’ve settled into the long, dark Portland rainy season, and our worship of the sun grows exponentially, dependent on the number of days of rain we have in a row. Dad feels this equation even more dramatically than the rest of us do.

“I was going to go out, run to the store, do some errands today, but I realized I didn’t want to waste a sunny day on that. I wanted to enjoy the sun. So I did. I stayed home and worked in the studio under my skylights and ate lunch on my porch.”

We all went to dinner the other night over at Mom’s house, and Mom called me the next day to tell me what a relief it was to see Dad so much himself again. It’s true; if we didn’t spend all summer in and out of doctor’s offices, we’d think everything was just the same as it used to be.

“Except for the hot flashes!” he laughs. “Those are a constant reminder. Which, on balance, is a small price to pay.”

But it is a stunning change that occurred. From total lethargy, loss of appetite and weight, pale, wan, limping and miserable, one step away from wishing for peace, to a return of the person we all knew Before Cancer. A little hormone shot in the keister, and an amazing return of the self.

But what Dad carries with him now is his awareness of his time being limited. He doesn’t dwell on it with me, but he is constantly weighing out the value of things in his mind with an eye to having no time to waste. And if, in his mind, it is more important to run his errands in the rain so that he may enjoy one last golden autumn sun, so be it. Time well spent.

“I’m always aware of the alien living inside me,” he admitted to me. “It gives me a different perspective on everything. Things have shifted, and I’m always weighing what to do with an eye toward the finish line.” He’s not macabre; he’s prioritizing.

It is easy to forget what we know to be true as we look forward to another holiday season with Dad. He’s spry and funny, mordant but jolly, but the equation is always unfolding in his head. What is more important? What is my time worth? Where will I be next month, next summer, next year? How will I be able to best appreciate it? Will I be able to appreciate it? Is this more important than that? Why?

Perhaps it is best for us all to prioritize. It is an important gift to be able to let slide the small things and embrace each sunny afternoon.

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