Silly birthday cards were always the norm in my family. Sentimental cards with messages of love were viewed with disdain and a faint sense of embarrassment. Looking back now， I dont ever remember the words “I love you” being spoken.

Then， just before I turned 29， Dad retired and my parents moved from Victoria to Queensland. As Im an only child， my friends were shocked that my parents could move so far away from me. I just shrugged， not feeling at all fazed by the situation—instead seeing it as an opportunity to have somewhere warm to go on holidays.

But six months into their retirement， my mother phoned to say she had some bad news： Dad had cancer.“But dont worry，” she told me. It was lymphoma and the doctors had assured her this was the most treatable kind. With chemotherapy， he would be “right as rain” in a couple of months. However， when I arrived in Queensland for a visit two months later， I was shocked by my fathers appearance. He was frail， underweight and had lost all his hair from the chemo. Although he was only 65， he looked as though he had aged 20 years.

It was a sad sight and I felt my emotions welling up inside. Before I knew what was happening， I fell upon my dad with hugs and kisses， and for the first time in my life I said， “I love you， Dad！” He seemed a little taken aback， but awkwardly told me he loved me， too.

But the tidal wave of emotion didnt stop there as I fell upon my mother in the same fashion， expressing my love for her， too. Then I gently pulled away， expecting some kind of reciprocation. But it never came. Instead， she appeared frozen in horror. Hurt and humiliated， I struggled to understand this rejection. What was wrong with me？ What was wrong with her？

The holiday was over all too quickly. When I was back at work once again， I overheard a workmate on a personal phone call to her mother. At the end of it she said， “I love you， Mum.” As simple as that. Declarations of love were clearly effortless in her family. Why wasnt it like that in mine？ Tears welling up， I ran to the toilets， where I cried so hard I thought my heart would break. This wasnt right！ Something had to be done about this love situation once and for all.

My opportunity came the next Sunday during my weekly phone call to my mother. After we had dispensed with our usual pleasantries and updates， I took a deep breath and asked， “Do you love me， Mum？” After a short hesitation， she replied brusquely， “You know I love you. Dont be silly.”

“Do I？ I dont remember ever hearing it from you.”

“Well， we never said things like that in my family.”

“Well， I want it to be said in ours. From now on I want to end our conversations with ‘I love you. And that goes for Dad， too.”

My mother reluctantly agreed， and for the first time our telephone conversation ended with， “I love you， Mum，”and she replied， “I love you， too.” Within a short time， “I love you” became easy to say， until it was very natural and we couldnt consider saying goodbye without it. Birthday and Christmas cards went from silly to sentimental， and when Mum bought Dad a Christmas card that year with the words “I love you！” spelt out in holly， I almost cried.

In the meantime， Dad had bravely completed his cancer treatments and， twelve months after being diagnosed， thankfully went into remission. A year later the lymphoma flared up again， but once more he valiantly fought it off.

Unfortunately， the stress and worry had taken its toll on my mother， and in May 2000 she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I was told that only five percent of patients survive.

Just five months after being diagnosed， Mum was admitted to hospital. It was a few days before I was due to fly out for another visit. Her condition was serious but not critical， and I phoned every morning to check on her. One morning when I rang， she sounded in good spirits， but that evening my instincts told me I needed to ring again.

My worst fear was confirmed when a nurse answered the phone and regretfully informed me that my mothers condition had rapidly deteriorated. She wasnt expected to make it through the night.

Knowing I couldnt get a flight in time， I asked the nurse to put the phone next to my mothers ear so I could talk to her.“Shes barely conscious，” the nurse replied. “Its unlikely shell hear you.” But I didnt care. I wanted to do it anyway.

Once shed placed the phone by my mothers ear， I started sobbing and telling Mum over and over again that I loved her， hoping she could hear. At first， all I could hear from the other end was “Hmmmm” —but then， like a miracle， with a deep sigh she said， “Love you…love you， darling.” It was the last thing she said before drifting into unconsciousness. She never spoke again. My mother died at four oclock the next morning， with my father by her side.

Although I was devastated by her death， the startling part was how well I coped. Of course， losing a parent is excruciatingly painful and I shed many tears， but receiving those lovely last words made it much more bearable. I had closure in the best possible way.

Slowly， Dad has now adapted to living alone for the first time in his life. And， Now theres just the two of us， were closer than ever.

Then last year， Dad was diagnosed with cancer again. This time its skin cancer， and to date he has been through two courses of radiotherapy. I dont know whether Dad will win this latest battle. At 79， hes not as strong as he once was， but hes still as determined as ever to go down fighting. But there is one thing I do know： whatever happens， whatever the future holds—for Dad and for me—our last words to each other will be “I love you.” Of that Im certain.

傻氣的生日卡在我們家很常見。而表達(dá)愛意的感性卡片則受到輕視，并對(duì)此感到有點(diǎn)難為情。此刻回想過去，我不記得我們?cè)f過“我愛你”三個(gè)字。

在我還不到29歲時(shí)，我爸爸退休了，爸媽從澳大利亞的維多利亞市搬到了昆士蘭。我是他們唯一的孩子，他們竟然搬到離我如此遙遠(yuǎn)的地方生活，我的朋友們對(duì)此都感到驚訝。我只是聳聳肩，完全不感到擔(dān)憂——反而把這當(dāng)成是個(gè)可以到溫暖的地方度假的機(jī)會(huì)。

但在他們退休六個(gè)月后，我母親打電話來說有個(gè)壞消息：爸爸得了癌癥?！暗灰獡?dān)心，”她說。那是淋巴癌，醫(yī)生跟她說那是最容易治愈的一種癌癥。經(jīng)過化療，他將會(huì)在幾個(gè)月后完全恢復(fù)健康。然而，兩個(gè)月后，我到昆士蘭看望他們時(shí)，父親的容貌變化讓我感到震驚。他很虛弱，很瘦，因化療而掉光了頭發(fā)。雖然他只有65歲，但他看起來比實(shí)際年齡老了20歲。

看到這讓人傷心的一幕，百般滋味涌上了心頭。我還沒了解清楚情況就撲到他身上擁抱他、親吻他，并第一次說出：“我愛你，爸爸！”他似乎有點(diǎn)吃驚，但他還是略顯尷尬地說他也愛我。

激動(dòng)的情緒并沒有收斂，我以同樣的方式撲向母親，同樣向她表達(dá)了愛意。然后，我慢慢地松開懷抱，期待著她的回應(yīng)。但她沒有任何回應(yīng)。相反的，她好像籠罩在恐懼之中。我感到傷心、委屈，難以理解這般抗拒的反應(yīng)。我做錯(cuò)了什么？她怎么了？

轉(zhuǎn)眼間，假期就結(jié)束了。我回去上班時(shí)，無意中聽到一位同事給她母親打電話。她最后說：“我愛你。媽媽。”就那么簡單隨意。在她家里，互訴愛意顯然是一件輕松的事兒。為什么我家不能這樣呢？我頓時(shí)熱淚盈眶，跑到衛(wèi)生間痛哭一場(chǎng)，感覺心都要碎了。這不正常！我要徹底改變這個(gè)關(guān)于愛的問題。

我的機(jī)會(huì)來了，下周日，我和母親進(jìn)行每周一次的通話。我們一陣寒暄并彼此說了近況后，我深呼吸，問道：“你愛我嗎，媽媽？”一陣短暫的遲疑后，她粗聲說道：“你知道我愛你的。別犯傻了?！?/p>

“我怎么會(huì)知道呢？我不記得你有對(duì)我說過?！?/p>

“哎，在我家，我們從來沒有說過這樣的話?！?/p>

“但我希望在我們家能聽到這句話。從現(xiàn)在起，我希望我們聊天結(jié)束時(shí)能對(duì)彼此說‘我愛你。跟爸爸也一樣?！?/p>

我母親勉強(qiáng)同意了，那是我第一次在我們通話最后說“我愛你，媽媽，”她回應(yīng)：“我也愛你?！痹诙虝r(shí)間內(nèi)，“我愛你”變得容易說出口了，后來說得很自然了，我們每次說再見都要說這句話。生日卡和圣誕卡也不再乏味，變得充滿情感。當(dāng)我看到媽媽在給爸爸的圣誕卡上用冬青葉拼寫出“我愛你！”時(shí)，我?guī)缀跻蕹鰜砹恕?/p>

同時(shí)，爸爸勇敢地完成了癌癥治療，確診一年后，讓人欣慰的是，病情得以緩解。又過了一年，淋巴癌復(fù)發(fā)，但他再次勇敢地戰(zhàn)勝了它。

不幸的是，壓力和擔(dān)憂擊垮了母親，2000年5月，她被診斷出患有胰腺癌。我得知只有百分之五的病人可以治愈。

確診五個(gè)月后，媽媽被送往醫(yī)院。幾天后，我才能休假去看望她。她的情況很嚴(yán)重，但仍有希望治愈，我每天早上打電話去了解她的情況。一天早上，我在電話中聽出她精神不錯(cuò)，但那天晚上，我的直覺告訴我要再給她打個(gè)電話。

我最擔(dān)心的事情發(fā)生了，在電話中，護(hù)士遺憾地告知我，母親的病情急劇惡化。她可能熬不過那個(gè)晚上。

我知道自己趕不及坐飛機(jī)到那邊，于是讓護(hù)士把手機(jī)放到母親耳邊，讓我跟她說說話。“她幾乎沒有了意識(shí)，”護(hù)士回答道。“她不太可能聽到你說話?！钡也辉诤?，我就是想跟她說話。

她把電話放在母親耳邊后，我就開始邊抽泣邊不停地對(duì)她說我愛她，希望她能聽見。最初，我只能聽到電話那頭“嗯嗯”的聲音，但后來，就像奇跡一般，她深深嘆了一口氣說：“愛你……愛你，親愛的?！边@是她陷入昏迷前說的最后一句話。她再也沒有說過話了。我母親在第二天清晨四點(diǎn)去世了，我父親陪在她身邊。

我對(duì)她的去世感到萬分難過，但讓我吃驚的是我的處理方式十分恰當(dāng)。當(dāng)然，失去母親讓我極度痛苦，流了很多眼淚，但最后聽到充滿愛意的話語讓我心里好受了一點(diǎn)。我以最好的方式作了道別。

漸漸地，爸爸現(xiàn)在適應(yīng)了有生以來的第一次獨(dú)自生活?，F(xiàn)在我們家只有我們倆人了，我們變得更親密。

去年，爸爸再次被診斷出患癌。這次是皮膚癌，目前，他已做過兩次放射治療。我不知道爸爸能否在最新的這場(chǎng)戰(zhàn)爭中勝出。他79歲了，不再像從前一樣強(qiáng)壯，但他仍然同樣堅(jiān)決地堅(jiān)持戰(zhàn)斗。但我確信的是：不管發(fā)生什么事，不管我們的將來如何，爸爸和我對(duì)對(duì)方說的最后一句話一定是“我愛你”。我對(duì)此深信不疑。