It was New Year’s Eve 2008, and I was hunkered down in a small one-bedroom apartment that I’d rented in Little Rock during my ten-month clinical trial for mul­ti­ple myeloma.

My wife Karen was splitting her time between looking after me in Arkansas and being with our two young daughters – and keeping her teaching job – back home in Missouri. I hadn’t seen the kiddos since I’d begun my medical ad­ven­tures nearly a month earlier.

Having spent the Christmas holidays with family in Chicago, the girls were excited to venture south to Little Rock to visit me for the very first time.

During the trip, five-year old Lizzie called to ask how on earth she was supposed to recognize me with no hair and no beard. Lizzie warned me that she might even scream when she saw me.

Chuckling to myself, I told her not to worry because I’d be the guy wearing a red knit cap. Now I didn’t bother to mention the ports and tubes and stuff sticking out of my neck or that I was beyond pale and that I had lost 25 pounds.

Yikes, I thought to myself later, maybe she will scream when she sees me.

At about midnight, I awoke to hear a key slip into the lock and the doorknob start to turn. The door, which had a rather Hollywood-esque creak to it, slowly opened. Brave Lizzie peered inside, spotted me in the easy chair, froze, eyes opened widely. Uh oh, here it comes!

To my relief, a huge smile erupted on her face as she bolted through the front door, ran over to the easy chair, climbed aboard, and shrieked ‘Daddy! Daddy! Happy New Year!’

Eleven-year old Katie was just a step behind her little sister and before I knew it, we were in the middle of a long overdue family group hug.

Karen cautioned the girls to be gentle because Daddy was not feeling well. But at that moment, I didn’t care about pain or broken bones or multiple myeloma or anything else other than the thought of never letting go of my girls.

Breaking the hug, Lizzie then lifted off my red cap, patted my bald head and asked if I ever got cold. She giggled when I said ‘Only when someone steals my hat!’ Then she stole my hat.

Katie said ‘Wow, Daddy, you look younger without a beard!’ At that astute observation, I temporarily lost my mind and promised to double her allowance.

Lizzie piped in ‘You know, Daddy, you DO look different, but I wasn’t afraid. I knew it was you ‘cause of your blue eyes!’

I had to swallow hard to keep my composure. My girls are adopted, and sometimes when they call me ‘Daddy,’ my heart melts. This was definitely one of those moments that, despite my dire predicament, I knew just how blessed I was.

Myeloma turned our family’s world upside down. So many things had changed, but thankfully, my familiar blue eyes weren’t on the list.

As I was preparing for bed, I stood and looked into the bathroom mirror. I noticed that I was sporting what I call All-American eyes: red, white and blue. And they were tired and weary.

Now it’s not like I haven’t seen my reflection thousands of times before, but on this particular night, my breath caught when I suddenly felt like I was looking into my father’s eyes. Maybe they weren’t as blue as his, maybe not as intense, but they reminded me of my father nonetheless.

Perhaps it was the curious combination of chemo, dex, lack of sleep, pain meds, and an emotional family reunion, but in that instant my mind flashed back to a night nine years earlier when I had traveled to visit my dad who was in the hospital in Newport News, Virginia.

He was clearly in pain and was fighting a nagging fever. I removed his glasses and placed a cool washcloth on his forehead. Without the military-issued horn-rims perched on his nose, I distinctly remember being taken aback by his brilliant blue eyes, as if I had never seen them before.

I sat in the chair beside his bed as we chatted and laughed. Nothing monumental, nothing earth shattering. Just two guys ‘shooting the breeze’ as he would say.

Karen called from Missouri, and she and Dad talked for nearly 20 minutes. Our then two-year old Katie got on the phone, and I smiled watching my father’s blue eyes twinkle as he grinned and coaxed conversation out of her.

I heard him say ‘I love you, too’ before he handed me the phone.

It had been a long day, and Dad struggled to stay awake. I put some lotion on his feet and his hands and gave him a drink of cool water. Knowing that visiting hours were coming to a close and that the exhaustion of the day was quickly overtaking him, I quietly told him that it was time for me to hit the trail, and that I’d see him bright and early in the morning.

Then I did something that I’d never done before. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

He was as surprised at this as I was. His lip quivered, and a single perfect tear fell down his cheek. Then another. He whispered that he loved me, and I knew that he meant it. All of the troubled years we’d shared together had vanished.

I went to the hospital the next morning only to learn that my dad had quietly passed away shortly before my arrival. Cancer had taken him far too soon.

And so it is, when I happen to catch my blue eyes in the mirror, I am confidently reminded that no cancer, no multiple myeloma, no situation, not even death, will ever have more power than the connection that I have with those whom I love and who love me back. Amen!