When my father was first diagnosed with cancer, it was laryngeal cancer. It was a daunting but not insurmountable diagnosis. As the family gathered to hear the information, I don't recall anyone perceiving it as a death sentence. Mom and Dad told us the bad news in a direct, factual way. I remember them answering our questions to the best of their ability. The tumor would be removed and after several weeks of radiation therapy everything would be as good as new. I think my father viewed this illness and the healing process as a job, a challenge, and a goal that had been given to him and that would have to be completed for the sake of his family. The family prayed, recited the rosary, made special offerings during Mass and lit candles. Dad had surgery to remove the tumor and recovered rather quickly. A few months after the treatment ended, he celebrated the birth of his first and only grandchild. Life was good. Within a year, Dad noticed swelling in his neck. An appointment was made with specialists and after tests the diagnosis was confirmed as Hodgkins lymphoma. The family continued to pray for strength and healing, as well as for the knowledge and guidance of the doctors. The treatment plan this time was for Dad to receive six months of oral and intravenous chemotherapy. Even though Dad didn't have a port, he never complained that the nurses had trouble finding a vein to give him chemo. Even now, Dad was a strong boy and his body still had reserve capacity, so he was able to handle those six months of treatment without too many complications. At the time of Dad's diagnosis, the chemotherapy drugs were tremendously toxic and he was extremely ill on many occasions. The course... half the paper... swallowed anything and a nasogastric feeding tube had to be inserted. He was wasting away and weighed only about forty-five pounds. The weeks dragged on, another family member died, and Dad asked, “Why her, God? Why not take me with you?" Dad didn't talk much, and when he did his voice wasn't much above a whisper. I spent many hours on those long nights simply holding his hand, touching his arm, or gently massaging his skin. It was unconscious and losing consciousness, but I think he could hear, so I spoke and read to him in silence. I knew Dad was finally ready. I patted his head, held his hand, told him he had been a good father and that it was okay. I told Dad that we would take care of Mom and that the kids would be okay. I held his hand tightly, afraid to let go, and told him how much we all loved him and that it was okay to go..