My dad is dying.

My father is going to die. Sooner rather than later. He has stage III pancreatic cancer. There's a tumor surrounding a major artery, perched on top of his pancreas. They can't resect. So he's going to start the cocktails soon.

But he's still going to die. He's sick, and he's never going to pull himself out of this.

Maybe it's because I wasn't here *before*. I guess there's going to be a before and after now. Before the diagnosis. After the diagnosis. And we can't ever go back to the before. That sucks. It's end of an era. The end of the healthy-dad era. When dad could help you with college, when dad was there for you. Now I have to be there for dad. Now I have to help dad. Because dad is dying. And when your dad's dying you're supposed to be there. You're supposed to get all strong and grow up or something.

I just want to avoid my dad at all costs. I don't want to be around to watch him slowly die. And maybe that's selfish, but I don't know what else to do. Dad just LOOKS sick. He LOOKS like he has cancer. He looks thinner. He looks paler. He just looks sickly. And I don't know if that's all in my head, but it seems so real to me. Dad is supposed to be a marathon runner. Dad rides 100-mile bike rides. Dad is a fighter. Dad is a wilderness guy. He loves camping and going to the gym. And though sometimes he gets hurt, he always recovers. He always looks young.

I had a horrible realization the other day. My dad always prided himself on his thick, dark brown hair. He only recently started going grey. But now, I will never see my dad with grey hair. Instead, it will just fall out. We're skipping that stage. The growing old thing. He's just sort of old. And now he's dying.

He blames my mother for the cancer. And my mother blames him for her unhappiness. I hate it. I absolutely hate it.