In March, my dad, 73 years young, was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer.
He’d been down this road before, last year, with prostate cancer. It felt scary, yes, but manageable. He had gotten into a prostate clinical trial at NIH, and we started to settle into the rhythm of appointments, treatments and hope. The trial was around a new procedure called prostate cancer ablation that uses heat and lasers to treat the tumor. The ablation was successful. We thought maybe we could put cancer behind us and continue on with our lives.
However, this spring, his pain began. A trip to the ER. An X-ray that showed…something. First, they thought colon cancer, then gallbladder, and then came the word no one ever wants to hear: metastasized. The cancer had started in his gallbladder and spread to his liver and colon—stage 4.
My dad started chemo in April at St. Luke’s in Boise, Idaho. Six-hour infusions every week. And yet, he amazes us—still going to board meetings, still working out, still showing up with humor and strength. He’s lost some weight, but not his hair, not his energy, not his faith. He’s fighting with everything he has.
That perseverance exemplifies who he’s always been. My dad’s life has been defined by service—as mayor of Boise, as a U.S. Senator representing Idaho, as governor of the state, and as Secretary of the Interior during George W. Bush’s second term in office. Today, he continues that work as a board member for the agricultural sciences company FMC Corp., and The Peregrine Fund, helping protect raptors around the world. The titles matter less than the heart behind them. Dad has spent his life leading with integrity, building community and making a difference.
Meanwhile, we, as a family, have pressed pause. My mom, Patricia, has been by his side every day, tracking medications, taking notes during appointments and adjusting meals to fit the bland diet he now follows. My brother and his family, also in Idaho, are close at hand. My dad is never far from the love of his seven grandchildren—four in Boise, and my three boys here in Arlington with my husband and me.
Life now comes in one- to two-month increments, with plans held loosely in place. Dad’s cancer surgery looms, a moment where we won’t know what’s possible until they open him up. We hold our breath. The chemo has held the tumor steady, but it hasn’t shrunk. We are living in the space of “not knowing.”
But here’s what I do know: The pause has changed me.
I’ve started to notice the little things—the everyday rituals I used to rush past. Picking Dad up at DCA when he flies in from Idaho for a board meeting. Sitting around our dinner table, listening to him laugh with my boys. Driving together to the car wash. My dad loves a clean car.
And on the other side of the country, a glass of wine on my parents’ patio at dusk, breathing in the mountain air near Boise. Moments so ordinary they could be overlooked, yet now they feel like treasures. I soak in his presence and energy, knowing that nothing—no matter how strong or sacred—lasts forever.
I recently asked my dad what he’s learned so far on this journey. He said the outpouring of love had humbled him. Friends and neighbors reaching out. Grown men telling him they love him, that he mattered as a mentor, colleague, friend. And I wonder—why does it take illness to nudge us into saying the things we’ve always meant to say?
Some of the best conversations I’ve had with my father have been over these last nine months. He’s asked me about being a mom, about watching my boys shoot up taller than me, about the SAT prep and college visits that somehow snuck up on us. We’ve laughed over old memories. We’ve cried about how hard it is to watch your kids grow up and no longer want to cuddle or be held.
My dad and I share a secret language that only we understand. We can find each other from across the room, give a look, and break out into huge smiles.
Back when he was in office, I invented a character named Millicent—my very stern, no-nonsense “secretary.” Millicent had zero patience, not even for a senator or governor, and certainly not for his jam-packed calendar. I’d call him, drop my voice a few octaves, and in my best clipped tone announce, “This is Millicent, and your daughter has been trying to reach you. Kindly stop acting so important and return her call.” It always made him laugh—and, truthfully, it usually worked.
He gets me, and I get him. I’m his only daughter. The thought of life without him is unbearable. I know I’ll have other mentors and father figures, but he is my anchor, my compass, my constant—the one I instinctively look to when I need direction.
My dad is the best speaker I have ever heard. He can command a room of dignitaries, CEOs or elected officials, then turn around and talk to a brigade of soldiers heading off to war, offering strength with just his presence. He can make the little old lady at the checkout line blush, or coax the butcher behind the counter into proudly showing off the latest picture of his granddaughter.
My dad doesn’t see status or titles as barriers. He sees people. More importantly, he sees the best in people. That’s why he’s always been my role model. He doesn’t just tell me how to live, he shows me, through kindness, humor, courage and an unshakable faith in others.
And then, of course, there’s the other side of him—the dad who once put on a Halloween mask and banged on the back windows during a sleepover, scaring me and all of my friends until we screamed ourselves silly. That’s the man who has taught me that life is both serious and playful, full of duty and joy.
My dad is strong. He’s a man of faith. He will fight. And until we know the ending, we’ll rest in this sacred stillness, learning that even pauses can be a kind of living.
Through all of this, I have learned to embrace my mobility, my health and my life. Cancer doesn’t care how old you are or how strong you feel. It can come for anyone. Don’t wait for pain or discomfort to prompt you to see the doctor; schedule your annual screenings now.
Just as importantly, don’t wait for illness to remind you what’s in your heart. What’s on your mind. Say the words. Love boldly and without hesitation.
There are moments when life asks us to pause, to breathe, to watch, to simply be. A pause isn’t an ending—it’s an opening to notice what matters before life carries us forward again.
Heather Myklegard lives in Arlington with her husband, three boys and their doodle. She runs Social Moxie, a marketing agency.