Believing in Miracles after Diagnosis
| December 17, 2024A survivor, my father was once again fighting for his life
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fter a few perfect days of a West Coast vacation, I returned home tanned, relaxed, and ready to share my experiences. I had gifts and warm regards for my parents, and my first stop was their home — the hub where my siblings and I always gathered. My mother always had something delicious coming out of the oven and my father was forever paternal, reassuring, and entertaining. It didn’t matter that I was a grandmother now; good times at my parents’ home were an eternal extension of my childhood.
I was on my way out when my brother met me at the front door. He welcomed me back and asked how the weather was, how the cousins out west were, and how our father was doing.
“Fine, same as always,” I responded.
“Really… so you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
He stood in place, a blank expression on his face. “Oh.”
Something about his tone felt ominous. “Oh, what?” My heart was pounding.
“Yesterday, he went to the doctor… and they found a tumor.”
“That can’t be. I just saw him. He seemed fine.”
He looked sadly at me. Say something, my insides were screaming at him. But he just stood there.
“A tu… mor,” I repeated, trying to digest his words.
He nodded.
“So if they just found it, it must be small?”
“It’s in the brain. And it’s not so small.”
“What?” I cried out. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My sweet father — the man who always made things right, whose wit was contagious and whose loving mantra to me was, “Rivkalle, I’m prahd ah yah” — with a tumor? I couldn’t believe it.
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