The following blog is written by WEWS Managing Editor Jim Scott sharing his experiences about his father who is dying of cancer.

Jim will provide daily updates.

You may e-mail him your comments.

Previous Blogs: Entry One | Entry Two | Entry Three

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You know what they say about first impressions. Well, this new care center Dad was taken to was wonderful! Actually, those impressions came from my wife and mother who were sitting there when the van driver wheeled Dad in. By now, I was back on the job nearly three hours away. If I had been there, I'd have proudly pushed him into the new digs. I felt like I could breathe again.

I would see it for myself not long after his arrival. You couldn't miss how well the place was kept outside; hedges well manicured, a brilliant green well-trimmed lawn and not a speck of litter or dirt anywhere on the grounds. And get this, there's actually a person sitting at the front door who dares to look at who signs in and makes sure you have a badge to be in the place. The administration and the social workers were brilliant, all on point and all giving us the information we'd need to make decisions in the days ahead.

The building is only two stories high with three wings on each floor. The elevator was so bright and clean that I had to chuckle for a minute and ask if this was going to continue all the way up to his room.

They even gave me the correct room number, (I know that's probably unfair of me to keep pointing this out about the other facility, but it doesn't seem to be asking too much), and when I walked in I found Dad curled up in a bed by the window looking ever so tired and weak. He doesn't see well but even before I spoke a word, he knew I was there.

He always seems to know me whether I'm 10 feet or away or sitting next to him. In the animal world, mothers and some fathers know their young no matter what; in fact penguins can pick their young out of thousands, so it shouldn't surprise me that Pop would know I'm in his midst.

I know he's happy to be here. He's told me and everyone who will listen, but he also thinks he's going home -- to Momma. I'm confused as to why this man who knows his chances are slim to none that he'll survive, says with conviction that he's going home.

The contradiction here is that he says he's made his peace with God and is ready for what's ahead. Is he backing away from it, or is that the way faith works?

I had to pray hard on this and I'm sure I got the right answer. Pop knows what he's doing. I believe in healing, and he does too, so if anyone can get through this by faith, it's my Dad. I'm sure he's onto something.

Even with the new surroundings, I noticed he's not eating much. Not that he doesn't try, but he seems to have trouble swallowing. Dad is now little more than skin and bones. We don't bother weighing him anymore. We know his condition is terminal and there's only one possible ending; the thing is he won't quit fighting. It's what his generation knew how to do best.

Pop has to have help doing just about everything especially the things that men are used to doing for themselves, but it's OK. I can see it in his eyes when I help him into the bathroom, pull down the Depends and gently lower him onto the seat.

He always apologizes, but I kiss him on the forehead and tell him there's never a reason to apologize to me for anything, after all, this is how he and I started out life together. The bond between a parent and child is incredible. You can't understand it unless you've been there, (I have twins sons and two daughters) and let me tell you there's no greater joy.

Even though Dad's eyesight isn't getting any better, we make sure his little television is pointed in his direction and I'm taking a suggestion from a kind person's e-mail to get him a talking book. Now that could be a problem because constant talking used to get his goat. He used to confide in me that he'd tune Momma out when she kept talking beyond his listening limit. He wasn't being mean, actually it was quite funny to see this happening. I'd have to finish some of the conversations because he'd tuned out and was reading his daily paper.

He told us the television remote doesn't work. I checked it out. It works, but there're just too many buttons on it and with his failing vision. It's difficult to maneuver. Problem solved though. We took away the super turbo universal remote and gave him the original remote to the television. Just a few buttons on it, so he's contented now.

His roommate at the care home is 96 years old, and in pretty darn good shape. He, too, is bedridden, but appears so strong and eats like a horse. I can't help but wonder why my Dad, a man 17 years younger is in worse shape, but I quickly dismiss this thought as "disrespectful."

Sorry, it was a human failing. Who am I to question God's plan for any of us. I apologized and said a prayer for the 96-year-old and his family, asking God to give him many more good days on this earth.

There's not a selfish bone in my body, it's just that I don't want to let go of this dear sweet person who helped me become the man that I am today. I became more of a man on this day.

We'll talk soon.

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