Yesterday, I turned 37. Today, we found out the tumor in my dad's head has grown.
this morning when we were on the phone, I worked hard to keep myself together. It didnt seem right to force you to comfort me when you were still reeling from the news: the tumor in your head has chosen not to remain a still small voice, but is growing to a shout. I cried a bit on the phone, but once we hung up, I broke down. I put my head on the desk and bawled, my tissue stained with mascara and tears.
I keep thinking about The Kid: how much you enjoy her company, how delightful your relationship is and will be--is supposed to be--far into the future. It's not fair! I want that for both of you! Please don't go yet! Please stay and play with my daughter. Let her get to know you. Make her remember you.
Whatever you decide to do regarding treatment, I will support you. It's your head, your brain. I can't blame you for choosing to keep it unaltered by surgeon's blade. But Dad, when you go--whether it's two years or twenty or more--it's too soon. I am not and will not be ready.
I love you,