The silence echoed in my ears like an explosion.  I suppose the simile isn’t too far from the truth, given the bomb I have dropped on my family, I am sure they are more shocked then I was when the doctor gave me the news, deadpan.

I knew that something was wrong.  I knew I was sick.  No one wanted to hear me, and I understand.  They need me to be well as much as I do.  A cancer diagnoses for one, is a diagnoses for all.  I learnt that the first time I was ill.

One night, I couldn’t sleep, the pain was great and the nausea even greater.  My head was pounding, and I went in search of… something.  The reason I was walking around long since left me, if there ever really was one.  I walked past my fathers study, in no way surprised to see the light on.  My fathers work ethic was one that he was proud of.

He worked 80 hour weeks, and eventually that grew into 90 hours after Kit left.  After I got ill, he never stopped.  I thought it was because he couldn’t handle cleaning up after me, couldn’t deal with the frailties of my body.

That night as I walked past the study, the same room I had walked past for weeks and barely peeked in, I was compelled to stop.  I stand at the doorway and watch my father.  I thought her was reading at first, his gaze of intent on the desk in front of him, and then I saw it.  I saw him wipe his eyes; eyes red from countless tears.  From a hand that rubs, violently, the evidence of emotion.

My father never felt more human to me then he did in that moment.

I couldn’t leave him, remembering the nights after mum left that he would comfort me.  He held me so tight, and told me no matter what he would love me, and I knew it to be true.  I slide into the room, not wanting to startle him.

Quietly I tip-toed on the carpet, until I could throw my arms around him.  I couldn’t see the look on his face, but by the way he jumped I knew I frightened him, so I held on as tight as I could.