[i]Here's how it didn't happen:[/i]

"I'm a little too tired to talk," he said.  "Maybe later?"

It didn't happen that way because it was my mother who picked up his phone, and stepped down the hallway of what I only later learned was a nursing agency.

[i]Here's how it didn't happen:[/i]

"I want to say I forgive you for not telling me about the prostate cancer," I managed to push out through the emotions choking my throat.  "But I'm not even sure there's anything to forgive."

He didn't say anything.  I took it on faith he heard me.

"You didn't want me to remember you as ... unwell."  That was a complete lie, as all simplifications of complex truths are.  Christian Science teaches that we are beings of pure spirit, that sickness is just a reflection of our separation from God.  He was a church elder.  So of course he [i]wasn't[/i] unwell, until he was.  Until the rambling call with Mom in which I finally managed to extract that he had eaten less than a handful of food in the past week and a half.

But [i]something[/i] was separated from God the whole time.  A little mass his doctor discovered years ago, that he ever more vociferously refused to get biopsied, until his doctor gave in and said there was no point; at his age the operation might be as fatal as the mass.  Mom let that slip after three all-nighters at his bedside.

Not telling me that was what I was trying to forgive him about.  Or, more accurately, to not have to forgive him about.  He respected me deeply and loved me with his whole heart, and the nature of that respect was a quiet omission of the truth.

He was too tired to speak, but even in the silence I could hear disappointment.  I was treating this like it was real.  I wasn't reacting like he was going to stand up in half an hour and drive home like nothing ever happened.

A little stabbing in my heart whispered that I was wrong.  There [i]was[/i] something to forgive.

I hoped in his silence he forgave me.

[i]Here's how it didn't happen:[/i]

"I'm proud of you, dad," I said through the tears, leaving out the "whether or not you make it through".

After a night to sleep on it, I had chased my tail right back around to a pale, perverted secular shadow of what he wanted in the first place.  If he had been open about everything, expressed his desire not to have his last years marred by increasingly excruciating medical interventions, and asked me to support him in his effort to die with dignity, I would have accepted without hesitation.  But why should he have had to ask me for permission for dignity?  Shouldn't that have been his right all along?

I was pretty sure "proud" was the wrong word.  But I was desperate to let him know that things were okay between us.

[i]Here's how it happened:[/i]

"How are things going with church, dad?"

"Oh, alright," he said.  "Paperwork.  Always so much paperwork.  How'd that story go?"

"I got it published!  The pay wasn't great, but it's enough to buy you a copy of the magazine when it comes out."

"That's great!"  The pride was audible in his voice.  "It's a big step."

"Thanks, dad."

"We should catch up," I said.  "I've got some weekends free.  Still on to go meet at that Chinese place in Springfield?  The kids are over at Karen's this month but I can show you all our videos."

"Things have been a little busy," he said.  "Later this month?"

"Sounds good," I said, and penciled him in for the 25th.  "Love you."

"Love you," he said.