*Biohazard Bagged Lunch

My dad & I have commonality  
We both survived the dread capital C.  
But what was years ago for him & me  
Is back for him as his reality.  
   
They didn't catch it till the tumors grew,  
And then they made him wait for more than two.  
By then the surgery would have to keep  
To see what months of chemo sows & reaps.  
   
A grand ol' man like him has stood the test;  
His years & loss of weight, he's done his best.  
We'll find out pretty soon what's next to come;  
If luck is in the odds, it's laser, done.  
   
Meantime, there's lots of fluids & some food  
That he must daily have to do him good.  
Of course with side effects it's never much,  
And after sessions, brings to me his lunch!  
   
April 8 ( NaPoWriMo 2017 )  
   
   
*The image, taken by me on my little cell, shows some of the bags of Dad's food that he most often gives to me since he doesn't touch the clinic's food that they give free to their oncology patients (he goes in every 2-3 weeks for chemo & hydration sessions).  He knows I never eat enough so he bestows upon me his "lunches".  Sometimes the food is in zip-lock bags with the symbol & words "BIOHAZARD", but for me it's delicious.  And not once has it ever made me glow in the dark!

Update 10/2/17:  It's all over: the powerful and destructive chemo sessions, the strong medications at home, and the injections he'd have to have so his white cell count would be brought down whenever his numbers became elevated, and the insidious pain attacks he'd get from his gut from the liver.  Once his latest PET scan showed how the malignant mass was no longer reacting to treatments and was growing  uncontrollably, all the plugs were pulled.  He just recently was accepted into hospice care where he receives the round-the-clock care that none of us can give him.  I just came out from another (albeit short) hospital visit when one of my sisters had to call 911 where the local fire department came into my apartment to have the paramedics rush me off.  These days our close family have all been met with one emergency or another.  We don't know how many months are left for Dad, but he doesn't seem to be aware what's happening to him.  I've stopped trying to tell this dear man that he's terminal.  I don't want it beat into his mind, it doesn't matter now.   He's where I know he's being cared for even though all he can think about is to get dressed in a good set of clothes and a pair of actual leather shoes (not hospital socks) and hop into the car he no longer can drive, and be the independent chap he once was.  The hero who would pick me up with one arm and grin at his little "sweet pea".