What I remember is wanting the truth and knowing that no one was giving it to me. My older brothers, my mom, the doctors and nurses—even my dad on the days he was well enough to talk—there never seemed a clear answer to anything anymore. I was in college already; we’d been going through this cancer thing for years, and I believed I could handle the non-sugar-coated version. I needed the truth. Only now, in light of all the changes my family was going through with my father’s treatment at a halt, any kind of truth I could hang on to didn’t seem to exist anymore.
