My father has been battling esophageal cancer for two years now. In the early stages, my father had just one wish, to be able to enjoy my mom's cooking again. It was hard for him to deal with the inability to eat and resort to the feeding tube. At one point, we were certain the cancer was in remission and life could resume again.

The cancer journey has been one filled with ups and downs, and some amazing tests of strength and resolve. In the last several months, it has been a slow awakening to the realization that the journey is near the end.

My father is bedridden now, and his daily care has been alternated in shifts among family members, with hopsice care providing some assistance. My mother remains a steadfast trooper through it all, keeping track of his medicine and devoting her time to keeping him comfortable. I'm in awe of her strength, and I hold her during the times when it becomes too much.

I know it has to be hard for this World War II veteran to deal with this turn of events in his life and accept help from each of us with his daily care. I watch in amazement each day, as he lies there without a single complaint and he manages to crack a smile at each visitor who comes by. I think back to the stories he shared of his time in the war– and I'm reminded of the time his troop marched for days without food, surviving on raw potatoes that they finally scoured up before reaching base camp again. His Marine training– his tough resolve– is evident in this daily battle that he wages now.

We turn to laughter to get us through each day. During a meeting with the hospice manager, my mom shared the story of how she accidently unplugged my father's feeding machine and couldn't get it started again. "Good thing it wasn't a breathing machine," I quipped. When they brought in the oxygen machine, we jokingly reminded my mom not to unplug it.

My dad received an unexpected gift on this journey– for a few short weeks, he regained his ability to eat and enjoy food again. We went through a frenzy of making his favorite foods and taking turns feeding him his requests. Pies, cakes, fish, fried eggs– whatever he requested, we served it to him. We took joy in watching him down his food after two years of not being able to eat.

We know the days are numbered for my father; indeed, they are numbered for all of us. So I wake up each morning thankful for the gift of time we have each day– and for each breath that keeps my dad with us for just a bit longer.