Dad — Age 7 with Pete from Our Gang, Atlantic City — 1936

My dad thinks he’s James Bond. His Honda Accord license plate reads ‘007’. He’s 88 and uses a cane except when he forgets it because he’s feeling more like he used to at 80. I’ve learned over the past year to see my dad as a man who is finding his way on this last part of the trek, this last adventure that is his personal Mt Everest. It’s tough to get old and sick and lose your physical power. It’s hard to watch your parents age.

They aren’t the parents you grew up with. In many ways, they’re strangers who you’re getting to know all over again. Some say we children switch places and become the parents. For me it hasn’t been that simple. My dad is still my dad in some familiar ways. He still calls and gives me instructions and advice. Sometimes he makes a joke, something he used to do all the time.

And yet, my dad is not my dad. He isn’t as light and funny as he was for the first sixty years I knew him. He complains a lot about the food and service at his upscale retirement community, about the many doctors and medical persons he sees every week, about his lack of energy and general shittiness, although he would never uses that word. He’s mostly miserable and before he wasn’t.

Cancer sucks at any age. Even when you’re old and figure you’ve got to get something before you go. It’s tough to watch; it’s tough to stay afloat whether you’re the sick or the well one. It’s impossible to find a pattern or routine in illness. It’s guaranteed to take you on a helluva ride. A ride you can’t control or stop or manage or laugh at (except sometimes).

My mom died three years ago at 85. She went from playing 18 holes of golf to dying in 4 short horrible months. My mother said good-bye to each of us. She looked us in the eye. She wrote us letters. She said she was ‘ready to go’. From beginning to end, she was totally aware of where she was and what she wanted. She made it as easy as something heart-breaking can be.

My dad’s a fighter. He blocks anything that he doesn’t want to see. When he was diagnosed with blood cancer six years ago, he never told anyone including himself. It worked. He’s survived two years longer than most. He never spoke of being terminally ill or being at the end of his life until a few months ago. And when he does speak of it, he is scornful and       angry that his life has come to this. He can’t believe it.

My dad wakes up every day and thinks about how he can stay, not leave. He makes daily phone calls to doctors and physical therapists asking how he can feel better not worse. He doesn’t like to use a walker; it makes him think he’s old and sick like most of the people he lives with.   His days revolve around calling and visiting doctors’ offices and contacting business offices, even though I now take care of managing and paying the bills. He’s a man on a mission who takes a nap every afternoon so he’s ready to go out most evenings with his friends. He complains. He’s laser-focused on himself. He won’t stop fighting until he can’t swing another punch.

My observations thus far? You can get old and sick peacefully or not. You can decide whether to accept your reality or create another. In the end, you can be grateful or ungrateful. You can focus on yourself or others. You can complain or find the positive. We decide how we want to go. We even decide whether we want to know we’re going.

Old age is hard. Old age and illness even harder. Can we make this last journey the way we want to? Yes and no. Maybe and maybe not. It all depends.