It's funny what a cancer diagnosis does to a family, a relationship, an individual. We hear the word "CANCER" and it scares the tar out of us. We all want Information and as terms like A.L.L. and Chemotherapy and Gleevek worm their way into daily conversations we start playing a numbers game. "If the cancer has been growing for this long and it takes one treatment to go into remission, that buys us X number of units of time." Then BOOM! The treatment actually works, and it goes into remission and Dad still feels crummy but we gave him enough of the poison to kill the cancer! AND he survived a ruptured spleen! Things are looking up.

And the next time I see him, he looks great. I latch on to the fact that he's riding his stationary bike regularly and he feels good enough to be requesting that I go on Pepsi runs. He rolls his eyes at the silly things his grandkids are doing. They sneak his treats every now and again, and (I suspect) they are sneaking sips of his Soda, too. Things almost feel normal. almost.

On our way home, we say things like "That is so great, he's riding that bike every day. And every day he rides a little more." "Not to mention the fact that he's eating again. He looks so much better." Mostly it's me saying these things. Robert, who carries the burden of too much knowledge and first hand experience in this sort of thing, just nods and mutters the occasional "Mm-hmm. He looks a lot better." I ignore his lack of contributions to the conversation. I'm tempted to ask him what he really thinks, but I'm not sure I want to know.

Months later, the words Relapse and Hospice and Could Buy Him A Few More Weeks enter the conversation and they feel like nuclear bombs. All of a sudden, I feel this sense of urgency. Someone needs to set up a video camera and record Dad. Right Now. I want to hear about his happiest memories. I want to hear about the times he was afraid, or lonely. I want to hear him talk about cars, and his siblings, and his mother. Has he ever tried anything and failed? What were his childhood dreams? I'm angry that we didn't get an oral history from him when he was healthy. I'm angry that my kids haven't had enough face time with their Grandpa and I'm jealous of those grandkids who have spent their whole lives with him. I'm angry that we live over 1,000 miles away from our family. I'm angry that I am so useless. Honestly, right now I can't remember why we live in Iowa. Mom's lifelong dream of all of her children living on a compound with her is suddenly very appealing.

And when did I start calling them Mom and Dad?

We Skype. I'm thinking "Why haven't we been Skype-ing every single day?" I always think that when we Skype. If I could have an endless supply of anything I wanted, it would be time with my family. (I'm one of those people who generally likes people a lot more than they like me.) And there everyone is. There is probably rice in the rice cooker, and in the fridge there is something yummy (probably made of cabbage and pork and garlic and fish sauce) to put on the rice. April made steak. Mom and Dad are snuggling on the couch, I can hear Diana and Tifiny's voices being broadcast from separate computers. Paul puts our computer on the floor, so for a moment all we can see is feet and Dad's walker. Every now and then Amy enters the frame holding a child to her chest. Karen introduces us to Peyton the Edible. We have gathered to have a Serious Discussion Regarding Dad's Choices. It's the quietest I have ever heard the family. Robert turns to me and says, so that only I can hear him "This is really uncomfortable." All I can do nod. I hold his hand. And what's wrong with me? I can't stop crying.

Before I know it, I'm watching my nephews perform acrobatics across the living room. George is franticly hollering "Hi KayKay! Hi Lolo! Iwuvyou!" I swear, I can almost smell the rice. I know exactly what it feels like to sit on that couch. I know what it feels like to share it with seven or eight people wedged in like a can of sardines and nobody wants to get up, because we are actually all pretty comfortable. I miss that. Robert starts playing around with the photo effects on his computer and soon he and April and Paul and Karen have each other in stitches. I can hear April crying behind her laughter. The filters on her computer program are making her look RIDICULOUS. When Robert decides it's time to sign off, I'm not ready. I make him leave it on for another hour. I haven't had enough time yet.

And that's just it. There's no such thing as Quality Time. Quality Time is a myth. Someone made it up who knew they weren't spending enough time doing the things they love with the people they love. The only Quality Time is Quantity Time.

I haven't had enough time. None of us have.