Round 1

More than ten years ago, 'the fighter' survived a gunshot wound from a glock pistol to the gut at point-blank range. He dragged himself 50 yards into his house to call 911 himself.

But for the last two years, his fight has been with a different opponent: an 'unclassified' form of Leukemia -- referred to generally as CML (Chronic Myeloid Leukemia).

CML is a slowly progressing type of cancer of the blood and bone marrow. The bone marrow is the inner part of your bones where blood cells are made. When you have CML, your body makes too many abnormal white blood cells. 

In recent months, his illness had taken a turn for the worse. The fighter had to have blood transfusions twice a week. He endured many trips to many doctors. Over the course of the illness he had five bone marrow tests, countless needles and many medications to control his disease and ease his symptoms.

Round 2

Just a few months ago while he was in Las Vegas the fighter felt "a little ill" (as he described it) and drove himself to a hospital. At the hospital, they determined his hematocrit -- basically the amount of red blood volume in your blood stream -- was so low that he should have been dead.

He was apparently something of a celebrity at the hospital that day. Nurses and doctors went out of their way to meet him, or spoke in whispered amazement amongst themselves about him. They couldn't believe he actually drove himself to the hospital -- or that he was even conscious and walking around.

He was just too stubborn to die.

Recently he learned that he was ineligible for Gleevec, a medication for his condition that could have helped him tremendously. But Gleevec only works if you have a certain chromosome, and he didn't have it. It was a setback for morale, but he hanged tough.

Round 3

The fighter's spleen had grown so large and caused him so much discomfort that the doctor's finally decided to remove it yesterday.

The fighter could barely breathe or eat because the spleen was causing so much pressure on his lungs and stomach. It was ten times the size a normal spleen should be. The fighter was weak, frail, miserable. He was on the ropes -- but this operation offered to greatly improve his quality of life, and maybe even his condition. 

He survived the operation, but in critical condition. His hematocrit was low. His blood pressure was low. But he still fought.

Round 4

Then they had to open his wound again to stop continued bleeding that threatened his life.

I signed the consent form. It was literally a do-or-die operation. He had fought too hard. He deserved another round. He was too stubborn to die.

The operation was a success, but the fighter was still in critical condition. His blood pressure was good. His platelet levels -- the level of clotting cells in the blood -- were on the rise, which was good. His bleeding had stopped. His hematocrit level was stable and looking good. The doctors were all cautiously optimistic.

We left the hospital around 11:30 last night, planning to return in the morning. The fighter needed to rest.

At 3:00AM my cell phone woke me.

The fighter's heart had stopped. They worked for nearly 45 minutes to revive him, but the long fight was finally over, in an unexpected downturn.

My dad wouldn't be winning this round.  

The fighter remembered 

When I arrived at the hospital, I ran into his surgeon coming off the elevator. He said he was sorry.

"You can't win 'em all," was basically the best I could muster at that time. For every life a doctor saves, there's another lost. It still sucks to be on the ass-end of that statistic.

My dad rose up from humble roots on a Montana farm to put himself through college, get married, and start a family. He played football and wrestled in college -- and he hustled the local pool halls to help pay his way through school.

My dad loved flying -- he was a pilot and flight instructor many years ago -- and he loved hunting, the outdoors, camping and fishing. He was extremely good with tools and construction, and always willing to help others.

He was an extremely good pool player and taught me how to shoot pool when I was old enough to see over the table. In recent years he was an official referee for professional billiards players.

He let me drive our speedboat when we lived in Florida.

Perhaps his greatest attribute as a father was that, no matter how different his kids were from him, he always allowed us to be who we wanted to be, and supported us in our efforts -- something I try hard to do with my own kids.

Just last weekend my younger brother flew in from Ohio to visit us and our dad. My brothers and I spent most of the weekend with him. We played poker -- a popular family past time since I was a little kid. As we wrapped up our game last Sunday after an afternoon of playing Texas Hold 'Em, my father looked up and said "This was the best day I've had in a long time."

I'm glad we were able to have those days with my dad, because that day will be last, best memory -- and the last time I saw my father before he went into the hospital.

I wish we could have more.