We flew home a few weeks later. In the next seven year’s Dad worked to secure the future of my mother, saw a grandchild born and then worked hard to spoil her very day. He remained a light in every room he entered, changing the dynamics through his powerful presence. His body never recovered, we spent more holidays at the hospital than at home over the next 7 years. He never enjoyed another meal because of the hash the radiation made of his digestive system. But he fought to stay and live well. In late April 1993, he died of a rare form of leukemia caused by one of the chemo drugs used to treat his lymphoma (a less than 1% possibility). One of the last things I told him was that I was going to go to seminary, he both rejoiced and I think was a little fearful (for me and the church). He died well, saying what needed to be said; taking, as he described it, his last steps home.
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