Written by: Cyndee Sapiano
It was April 2003 when I picked up the phone to call dad. He was living in Seattle and I was in Canada. We usually chatted a couple of times a month, and it was time for my obligatory call.
Dad and I were not close by any stretch of the imagination. Our conversations generally included topics like the weather, or how my car was running. They were brief and surface; always leaving me with a sense of emptiness. Dad had no idea who I was. He didn’t know a thing about my dreams, goals, struggles, or virtually anything that mattered to me.
That day our call was very different. “Cyndee, I’m not doing too well,” he said. “I just came back from the doctor and I have cancer, with only three to six months to live.” I literally fell to my knees and burst into tears, screaming out to God.
On most days I sat at dad’s bedside. Sometimes we would watch TV, other times I would read to him or (Click “HERE” to read more)