Except that Dad hates the treatments.
Hates the way the other patients look, wan and stick-like in their bathrobes. Hates the wheelchair he rides from the treatment room to the car. And especially, hates the moment when he lies down, waiting to be knocked out so his mind can be taken out of his control and…not wiped clean, but smudged around the edges, the way your sweater sleeve smudges words off a chalkboard.