My Dad is dying, we are on the downhill side of this. There is no way around it, no delicate way to say it. We can hope and pray for the Tarceva to work, but my gut tells me it's not going to. Dad has never mentioned the possibility that he won't survive this, and I have always assumed that he's in denial, and we're not supposed to talk about it. Until yesterday.
I took Dad out to get ice cream, and we made a pit stop at Land of Paws so I could show him the Wheaten Terrier I'd been thinking about. He enjoyed looking at the puppies, and started talking about Scottie dogs. I recalled that he'd always had a thing for that breed - given his name and all - when we played Monopoly, he was always the Scottie playing piece, and I guess he had several Scottie-themed things as a kid. As we were leaving, he said, in an off-hand way "When I'm gone, you should get a Scottie Dog and name it Apaa." I stopped in my tracks for a minute. The wind was knocked out of me. He didn't look at me, and I responded "No, we'd call it Ed."( - My father's actual first name, like my daughter, he goes by his middle name. ) He looked at me with his eyes full of tears, and said "I'd like that."