by Michael Moran

Created on: November 19, 2009

Cancer. Lance Armstrong gave it a testicle, but beat it. Christina Applegate lost her breasts, but beat it. Roger Ebert's jaw will never look the same, but it's still possible to see that smile. Cancer is a terrible disease, but people do survive.

But sometimes - lots of times - people die.

He died. That's how this story ends. I've given it away, haven't I? His end is your beginning.

Fifty-five. Fifty-five years old and stuck in a leather recliner in our living room. He looks pathetic, and he knows it. We know it, but pretend we don't.Fifty-five. Fifty-five seconds to get into the passenger seat of his car. Fifty-five people I've seen today older than fifty-five. I counted, but stopped, embarrassed by my genuine feelings of resentment towards these complete strangers. Why do they get more time? They walk, they laugh, they breathe. He can barely do any of these. A spontaneous walk ends in a growing bruise on his temple. The only joy left is the grunt he uses to acknowledge our jokes. Yes, we tell jokes. We try to lighten the mood. It never works. A conscious breath (they're no longer effortless) could be his last. Soon, one will be his last.

Cancer has pillaged my father's insides. His organs have been raided and messed with. Thieves, during the night and day, set fire to his heart, throw knives at his lungs and rapidly, without warning, destroy the only permanent home he's ever known: his body. His body that was healthy and fit only a year ago. From fit to emaciated in a matter of months. But that's how the story goes. You already know how it ends, this is just how we get there.

Once a captain in the army. A success story amongst the most successful success stories about lawyers. From rags to riches, with a heart of gold. A hero to the homeless, uncountable hours of pro-bono services. A magical man with the ability to make a grouchy teenager laugh. The only one who could claim such an honor during those years. An upstanding man who, post-divorce, never uttered an unfavorable word about my mother until the day he... well, you know.

Well, you do know. I've already told you how this story ends. Cancer: 1, Dad: 0. Final score. End of game. Rematch? Impossible.

But wait. I'm still here. 9 months later and here I am. I would never say this in public, but I guess you could call me a cancer survivor. I'm still standing, even though Dad isn't. I'm still determined to live my life, even though Dad can't live his. I survived his death.

And that's how it goes. And that's what I've learned. Life is death. Death is life. But we survive. We move forward. That's how the story really ends.

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