Waves: micro and radiation

My Dad went in for palliative radiation therapy on Wednesday, hoping to experience immediate pain relief for his bones. We were all optimistic. Even though the treatment would not cure his cancer, I allowed myself to picture him back on his bike, leading a ride, almost manic. When I was younger, the site of my dad in spandex and a bright yellow jersey would bring an embarrassed flush to my cheeks. Today, it would bring an indescribable sense of victory and happiness. I never would have thought, in a million years, that I would smile at the thought of my dad in his bike gear. Two days after radiation therapy, my dad is in his sweats, his spandex tucked away in his dresser, collecting dust. He is still in pain and does not have enough energy to run basic errands.

He called me this morning asking for a favor, would I pick him up a microwave and some dinner entrees? Sure Dad, anything. He explained that he no longer has energy to do the dishes. He needs something he can heat up and throw away. He hates microwave dinners, almost as much as he hates his cancer, but a guys gotta eat. We discussed his price range, color and size preference. We went along as though this was a totally normal conversation between father and daughter. We ignored the fact that he could not accompany me to the store, that he was purchasing a microwave for the first time in 61 years and that his new dinner menu would pale in comparison to the fresh stuff he liked to buy at Trader Joe's. We ignored it because we have to. For survival.