Chapter 18

The three of them ended up in an exam room in the ER. Dr. Stevens was sure Alan had passed out from shock, and there were no other underlying problems, but because of his age and the stress he had been under, decided to run an EKG on him anyway, and give him a round of pure oxygen. The EKG had been normal, the oxygen had helped, and now they just waited for some release papers. Alan sat on an examination table, Don sat in a chair near him, and Megan stood awkwardly at the door.

"I should leave," she said for the fifth time, and again Alan asked her not to. "You're part of this family, now," he smiled. "Get used to it."

Megan smiled back. "I'm not sure that can be done, Alan," she answered, and the three were chuckling when Dr. Stevens came back into the room.

"Ah, good," he smiled. "That's sounding much better!" He handed Alan his discharge orders and then hesitated. Everyone looked at him expectantly. Finally, he held out a sheet of paper. "Charlie's nurse just gave me this," he said. "It's dated last week, and it was saved on a CD. He asked the night nurse to find a way to print it out, and give it to you."

Alan made no move for the paper, so finally Don took it, and started reading. Soon, he held it toward Megan. "I'm sorry," he choked. "Can you read this? I don't think I can."

"Of course," she said, helping Don as he pushed himself off the chair and went to stand behind his father. He wrapped one arm all the way around Alan's chest, and the older man reached up with one hand to hold on. He nodded at Megan, and as she sat in the chair Don had just vacated, Dr. Stevens quietly left the room.

Megan decided not to read it to herself, first. That had probably been Don's mistake. Instead, she just began:

Dear Daddy,

The nights are long here.

For a few weeks now, I have been using them to try and design an algorithm that mathematically defines love. I think I may have a new "P vs NP" unsolveable problem. I've even tried the physics quantum field theory that Larry is so fond of. At first, I didn't think I had enough data, and I actually interviewed some of the people here to get more. Then I thought I had gathered too much. The answer was so simple, however, that it completely eluded my drug-riddled brain for days. It's an anomaly. There are too many variables — or maybe not enough. How can you mathematically measure a parent's love for a child, a child's love for that parent, a brother's love for a brother…or a man's love for a woman? It cannot be measured, or predicted — it can only be experienced.

Dad, I asked you once if you were angry with me because of the way I acted (and didn't act) when Mom was sick. You told me that you tried to be, you wanted to be angry at something, or someone — but Mom wouldn't let you pick me. You said that she understood that part of me was always with her, even when it wasn't the physical manifestation of me. I've wondered ever since if that were true. If nothing else, this experience with leukemia has set that doubt to rest. Now, I can understand that aspect of love, as well. I feel you with me every moment, Dad, whether you are physically here or not. I know that you would give your last breath for me — I just don't want you to. Please take care of yourself, and Don, our rock — he's stronger than all of us, but he's not as strong as he wants to be.

I will always love you both.

Charlie