a chemo memory

On or around this day in 2003, I went into my parents' house at about 6am to get ready to have them take me to my third or fourth day of chemotherapy. 

I was unsure whether they'd be awake yet, so I just let myself in. The lights were on, but I didn't see them anywhere. I approached their bedroom. I heard an unmistakable and rare sound: my dad sobbing. He was saying, over and over, "My son! My son!" 

I've never told them or anyone that I overheard that. But it's stuck with me all these years.

How hard it must be, to see these things unfold beyond one's control! I've often thought my cancer was harder on those around me than it was on me — when it's happening to you, you tend to have a certain let's-get-through-this focus. 

Twenty years, surrounded by love like this.