Everybody Dies

My dad got his prognosis yesterday: nine to twelve months, with or without treatment. He was practically giddy. My mother was devastated. I just watched. I felt like the character in "A Chorus Line" who sings, ". . . and I felt nothing, I felt nothing . . ." My dad's reaction was, "Well, I need to wrap up the sale of that business." Then he turned to me and said, "Let's make sure you have that Power of Attorney." He seemed pleased to have a goal, a task to complete before reaching the deadline. Taking care of business. That's what men in his generation do . . . or maybe that's what all men do . . . or maybe that's what people do. My mother just cried.