Today, my dad's college best friend's daughter called me. Over the years, we've all been close. We've flown to see them, and they've come out to see us. Lots of similiarties.


The last time my dad and her dad got together, it was the Holiday Bowl in San Diego. 1994. I remember turning around in the stands, seeing my dad laughing with her dad. I could see the laugh lines around my dad's eyes --- there just wasn't a person who could make me laugh the way he made my dad laugh.

This was January of 1994.

On a cold February morning, my aunt and uncle came to tell me that my dad had died the previous night. The doctor thought a heart attack. My heart broke.

In the days that followed, people started showing up to the house and I couldn't really understand just WHY they were there. I never saw them outside of special occasions. I was in such a state of shock, I suppose. But out of the misery, I saw him. I saw W. He hugged my mom, my brother and me in the biggest bear hug. I have said since that I had never felt so safe. We were okay. It would be okay.

So today, his daughter calls. They've admitted her dad into the hospital. He's been losing weight. He's not recovered well from a flu he had six months ago (he's only 58, you see). Her mom won't tell her what the doctor's have found over the phone because they just don't want to worry her.

She calls me instead on the 45 minute drive.

I tell her I'm sure it's all going to be okay. After all, this is the same dad that made MY dad laugh so hard. This is the same guy that used to send back his food because it was 'too done', 'not done enough', or my personal favorite, 'Jesus Christ, I wouldn't feed this to my dog'. Maybe it was the delivery, but it had me in stitches every time.

Tonight, I tell my husband (a doctor) what the doctor's have found. I tell him verbatim what his daughter has told me. There's a silence and then the truth as he knows it to be. It could be one of two things. I tell him I don't want to hear it. He says it anyway.

I crawled into my husband's lap like a little baby and cried. (I'm crying now) I'm crying because I love this man so much. He's family to me. I cry because I don't want anyone to know the pain I knew losing a father so young (mine was only 49). I cry too (selfishly?) because this is one more piece of my father I'm just not ready to lose yet.

Colon cancer, my husband says. Possilby diverticulitis. It can forge a mass between the colon and bladder, my husband says. He'd know. He's a doctor. But it could be cancer, too, especially if they found spots on his stomach, baby.

I believe in miracles. I saw one earlier today. I know they can happen.

I know, too, not many people read this blog.

But I had to let this go tonight ... let it be.

And if you read this, please send up a prayer, a thought, a wish, whatever you do. Because he needs this. His family needs this.

He's a super guy.

God give you strength tonight, Woodson.

I love you.