y father's condition had changed, and not just physically. He had made an incredible stand against his disease his first nine weeks in the hospital. He was well on his way toward regaining normal functioning, seemingly, when he found himself back on the cancer ward.

He underwent another round of chemotherapy and, with me coaxing him on, managed to eat and sustain his weight at about 115 pounds. I was crushed that he had to return to the hospital, but I was enthusiastic and hopeful that he could still recover. I was accustomed to the hospital routine and ready to continue it.

But he wasn't, although I didn't see it at first. Even though after three weeks he was progressing well in his chemotherapy treatment, his heart wasn't into it. Had he been able to knock cancer out and resume normal functioning, I believe he could have succeeded. But, ultimately, he was unwilling to struggle against an opponent that allowed you to raise your hopes before shattering them like a dropped light bulb and that, like sand running out of an hourglass, slowly stripped away your independence and dignity.

He was being administered Tylenol to keep down his temperature, which was constantly on the verge of being out of control. One day, in the midst of a foul mood, he announced to me, with an angry, stubborn look, that he wasn't taking any more Tylenol.

We argued for five minutes, if you can call it that. It pretty much consisted of me trying to reason with him and him shaking his head and telling me, "I'm not taking it."

It was near dinner time, so I devised a plan to slip the Tylenol into his food. Unseen by him, I opened the powdered capsules, slipped the powder into his apple sauce, and then tried to distract his attention with conversation. After two bites, he turned toward me, gave me a hard, knowing look, and spit the apple sauce out, letting it dribble onto his chin.

I told him, "O.K. Have it your way."

And he did.