We've been dealing with my father's cancer and upcoming surgery. We've moped and cried and held each other's hand. Yet there's this strange interlude before the surgery when we can't keep wringing our hands. Our sense of humor starts peeking out. Why not? We all qualify for AARP membership, and that's funny all by itself.

Some of the best family dynamics from 40 years ago come back. My father, mother, older sister, younger sister and I find ourselves laughing and remembering the Beach Boys, LBJ, Vietnam, the summer of love - a time that stands out even now.

They ask me about the John Muir Trail. They say how meaningful it sounds, but I know them too well. They think I'm nuts. That's OK. Maybe I am, but they have learned to live with my insanity.

They turn quickly to a conversation about the soap opera "All My Children." We all launch right into our favorite 1970s stories about the character Erika on that soap opera. My mom and sisters watched the show because they loved it. I watched because I was home with pneumonia and needed something to fill the time until the Watergate hearings came on in the afternoons.

Dad took it all in, smiling the whole time.

"Remember when we were in that trailer at the beach and dad bashed his head coming in the door?" my older sister asked.

"We tried not to laugh," said my younger sister. "He kept telling us to stop laughing. But when mom started giggling, we couldn't stop."

In that moment, it was 1965, and it was so nice, so protective to be in the past.

But the next day arrived and so did the surgery. And afterward, the surgeon explained first to my mom, sisters and me that the liver tumors were too significant to treat. He said it might be best to just make him comfortable with painkillers.

We told dad the next day. He took it in stride, demanding to know how long he had left to live. He asked all kinds of questions. He was my powerful father, facing death the way he faced life.

But this really was not the past. This was 2006.

The anesthetic for the surgery and the painkillers took their toll on his consciousness, and he forgot the conversation. He forgot in a single day.

It was a cruel turn. He began talking about recovery. He started talking about chemotherapy. He started to hope.

Today, my mother informed him again. The pain washed over us all over again as he once again faced fate. I hope I have half his composure when my time comes.

This afternoon, he told me again how much he loved me. Clear-eyed and awake, he is fully aware that doctors do not believe they can save him. He's waiting for sunset in Maui.

I have so many conflicting thoughts now - pride, anger, sadness, irritation, fear, regret, relief and even peace on some levels. I have so many questions. More than ever, I'm looking forward to time on the John Muir Trail. Maybe I won't find the answers. But that's the place I go to sort things out.