I’m sitting next to a hospital bed containing my father. He’s been fighting lung cancer, and last week really started struggling to breathe. He waited until his regular chemo appointment to get any attention for it. Oncologist sent him straight to the ER, where he ended up being admitted.

He’s been here for three days now, and this morning two people with very kind eyes took me to one of the special, sparsely furninshed, soundproofed, hidden-from-the-other-patients room and they let me know we needed to make some very hard decisions.

I made them, we asked him and he agreed. All day I’ve been telling him he’s doing better but those are lies designed to lift his spirits. I hate myself for lying to him, and I hate myself for starting to believe it, and I hate myself when I tell myself not to believe it.

Thanks for listening.