He’s very special to me, very special, and the oncologist told him there’s nothing more they can do for him. Denial’s warm blanket is tempting me to think he’ll be fine. He’s a fighter. He’s beat death before. But this is different. The cancer is everywhere. The cancer is ¬†fireworks bursting through the sky. He won’t beat it this time. I do not have to be God to know this. I just have to throw off the blanket, stand naked in the cold, and accept what the doctors are saying. Wow. That’s it. The truth of this is as stark as the words I’m using to tell you. This is when I need a hug or a medical dictionary or a prayer. A bunch of prayers sang up to a Saviour who will probably decide not to save him. In his swollen hands he holds a pain pump. Every five minutes he presses the button then dozes off to sleep. I sit in his quiet room in the Cancer Center watching him, this man whose body once filled doorways, (I’m stopping here. I can’t write anymore. You understand.)  
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