It was a Friday evening when Mom, Dad and I set out to Rochester again. Because Dad had already taken many days off work, he would only drive up to the clinic with us and then catch a return flight into the Moline airport on Sunday; the shop rules had been relaxed (when I had surgery) for Dad's benefit, and as grim as the circumstances were, the boss could not abide the thought of sending Dad forms to complete to satisfy the company, especially considering his flawless work record. Nevertheless, it had been over a month, and Dad could not expect to take more days without giving a formal written explanation and statement of intent as well; with Mom's vast accumulation of sick days, there was no need for my father to remain during my treatments. The hour of our arrival was quite late, but since we had two weeks to plan the trip, we had the foresight to make reservations at a nicely furnished motel rather than leaving our luck to chance. It was a marvelous improvement from the motel of our initial excursion, having individual bathrooms (instead of one down the hall) and kitchen facilities which we would use later. We indulged in sightseeing and shopping throughout the weekend until Dad's departure, lending to our time the best possible sense of normalcy by pursuing the activities which I found most enjoyable. It was impossible to forget the promise of Monday's treatment, however, and it seemed to me that I was followed by a haunting shadow of unrest, while before me, ticking loudly, was ever the face of a clock. Too soon Sunday came and Mom and I watched as Dad's plane taxied down the runway, turned and scorched a misty path into the blue sky. We drove back to the city, stopping to buy groceries to outfit our kitchenette, and then arranging them in the cabinets of our temporary home before seeking a restaurant for the evening meal. The so-called "last supper," my last meals taken before all eating had to cease to comply with the demands of the morning blood test, were traditionally grand affairs. I ate whatever struck my taste bud's fancy, which in my case, was always a chicken dinner. I doted on fried chicken to such an extent, ordering it on every occasion in which we ate dinner at a restaurant, that Dad eventually blamed "chicken" as the culprit behind my development of cancer. Although the doctors assured him that my love affair with fried chicken had played no part in germinating my disease, he still "hated the stuff"; as with all unreasonable, unexplainable, occurrences the desire to find a reason is a fiery quest, which unfortunately is not extinguished by merely pointing one's finger of blame on a subject. Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair.