Rolling it Out

I have found a new love: cinnamon rolls. These are not your average convenience store honey buns. These are rolled out, gooey, buttery, sugary, sliced up jewels of ecstasy. Amid my struggle of losing weight from menopause, these rolls have proven to be my kryptonite, and I'm okay with that. A bigger thing is hidden inside of these baked goods; there's a connection that I don't want to lose.
Dad is still taking chemo every three weeks, and every day is surely a struggle for him. Yes, he is still working, giving his time, skills, and know-how to the fire department, and still putting on a brave face every time he goes out in public. The most often heard phrase from people who see him is, " but he doesn't look sick." Most patients taking chemo lose weight. It's the trade off for having all of your cells bombarded in a battle to kill the cancer before it can kill you.

But that's not how my dad rolls.

He swears that he is much bigger than this tiny cancer, and therefore, it cannot kill him. As brave and courageous as that is, it's simply not true. This type of cancer doesn't care how big you are, what kind of person you are, or whether or not you still have things to do with your life. And speaking of bigger... that would be dad's pants size. He hates it, but I would rather see him look healthy and be a little bigger than the alternative. Here's where the cinnamon rolls come in.

I brought a pan of about 15 cinnamon rolls to my parents' house, and within two days, they had disappeared. Dad was eating them for every meal. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snack. Boredom. Just because.
Discovering how much he loves these cinnamon rolls lead me to the false conclusion that if I could keep him nourished with these rolls of yeast, butter, and love, that that would keep him sustained and living. Even if for only a little while longer. Even if I have to bake cinnamon rolls every weekend to keep his supply stocked, this I will do.