Andrea and Barb, my sisters, were at the hospital visiting Dad. They'd just gotten the results back from a CAT scan and other tests: the cancer in his lungs was back full force, and now there's a growth or tumour or something in his brain that is adding to the gloomy prognosis. According to the docs, the time we have left with Dad in this world is measured in days or weeks, as opposed to months.
He has periods of lucidity, but sometimes ... not so much. One day, he insisted he was 55 years old - which he was, 30 years ago. Another day, he asked my sister who that girl was who kept coming into his room. He knows her, he says. Just can't remember her name. (Cue Twilight Zone music. I'm thinking City of Angels.)
But some days, he's Dad.
This day, Andrea was asking him if he needed anything. Is he bored?
"Not really," said Dad.
"Well, I see you looking off into space a lot," Andrea said.
"Just thinking," said my Dad.