Dad is now six months into “managing cancer.” He got his third hormone shot, the last in the keister which is probably a relief. Although now they’ll be giving him a shot in the stomach which seems worse somehow. Maybe it’s the predator/prey relationship: once your belly is exposed, it’s all over.

But his PSA numbers have leveled off. His numbers are in the realm of “normal” though not undetectable; he’s basically got the PSA results of someone who’s not riddled with cancer, which is an amazing feat of modern medicine and we’re grateful every day for such fortune. His addiction to the Home Design network and hot flashes notwithstanding, of course.

And we’ve chosen to go Mexico for a family vacation once it became clear that Dad was going to be not just feeling better, but completely able to embrace his life again. It occurred to me that we should do just that. If you’re given a reprieve, best not to squander it.

So with typical pushiness I cajoled everyone into going to Rome, which turned into Mexico, which is fine since we’ll be staying on the beach with chickens for neighbors, and a mobile gas delivery truck which blasts out bad electronica tunes with their name “Flo-Gaass” competing for your propane dollars with the other gas delivery truck also blasting bad electronica out the back of its truck. And then we’ll walk from our beach down an unpaved road to a restaurant (which is deceptive, really, since the “restaurant” is basically a patch of light rain forest with tables) to eat the best shrimp tostadas anywhere. Or maybe to the plaza for an American breakfast, pick up some fresh tortillas and shrimp caught that morning, and walk back to our beach. That will take us the full seven days I think.

While I’m gratified and relieved and completely ecstatic about Dad’s results with this whole “Back from the brink” thing, Dad reminds us, though in no overt way, that he’s still harboring a fugitive of ill-will in him. He lets us know through his benevolence, in his continuous shifting of books on to those who would best love them, since, as he says, “I won’t be around to read them a second time.” So every week there are new gems plucked from the Great Library of Dad and passed on to those he loves and knows will appreciate them. Each book has been selected with care, and since he’s the most avid book collector I’ve ever met, the turning of the page is poignant: it must be if he’s letting his blessed books out of his grasp.

Though I imagine that thousands upon thousands of pages have been shifted already to new homes, I wonder if I would notice a dent in the collection that lives in his basement. He has so many books I’m pretty sure he could keep up this sort of benign torch-passing for years to come, which is good. We don’t want to leave him with nothing to do.

And he paints with a reignited flame, every day for hours, until the weak winter light craps out on him. His studio is brimming with paintings, and I might be wrong, but I think I glimpse a certain light-hearted playfulness there which had been missing from Before Cancer. He delights in making a messy painting messier by scrubbing it out and painting on top of it, seeing what emerges from the ashes. Perhaps it’s too easy a metaphor for his year, but he’s pretty relaxed about whatever it is that comes through the paint.

We’re all thrilled with how this year has ended; certainly better than how it began. We’re reminded that life is sweet and fleeting, and best to hold those dear to you a little closer. This year I have no resolution but that, because we’re all subject to the whims and impetuousness of fate which can deal you a blow at any time. We dodged the bullet this year. And we’re satisfied with that.

Popularity: 7% [?]