Sunday was Father's Day. I thought about writing something in honor of the day. Holidays have been fun to write about this past year; if a day is worth commemorating as "X Day" then spending a little time to think about it the day of seems appropriate.

However, I had plenty of other things to do with my time, chores, recovering from a hangover, etc. I found that, when I tried to think about Father's Day and what it meant to me, or at least what it could mean to other people, I had little to say. I hadn't given much thought to my father of late, and haven't really dwelled on my childhood without a father figure since my junior year of college, when I wrote more extensively on the subject and made my peace with that longing that will always be unfulfilled.

Last night my sister sent me a text message. My father is in a hospital in Portland. He was flown there via helicopter from Medford (since I haven't spoken to him in two years, I was surprised to hear he was in Medford again). He's jaundiced, and it's likely that he has pancreatic cancer. I don't know much about that, but a quick glance at the wikipedia entry paints it all rather clearly. Less than five percent of those diagnosed with it are still alive five years later. Talking with my sister after I called for more details, I learned that my grandfather, his father, died of pancreatic cancer while not much older than my father is now. Needless to say, this does not bode well for my chances in the future, nor his at the moment.

As yet, I have learned this too recently to have a strong reaction. Any time when I've been told something particularly devastating in the past, it usually takes at least hours if not days before the whole weight of the thing comes crashing through, a juggernaught of thought that finally storms the gates and forces my mind's eye to look, forces me to feel. So, at the moment I feel relatively calm, but I can't say for sure how I'm going to feel in a day or two.

I have the number to the nurse's station at the hospital. I'm not sure if I'll call. "He is your father," comes to mind, as if he and I sharing genetic material somehow meant something. What would we talk about? I think I'll feel worse later in life if I don't call. Why did he have to do this now? He couldn't have waited a few more years, let me get settled down and then decide that I'm willing to talk again. No, he had to start dying now. Now, when all I know for sure is that when I was growing up I wanted a father, any father that wasn't him.