Before he dies, my father tells me he isn’t afraid, he’s had a good life, his only fear is that he’s letting me down.
“Before he dies, my father tells me he isn’t afraid, he’s had a good life, his only fear is that he’s letting me down. This is in June—on Father’s Day—and he will die at his home in New Canaan a little over eight weeks later. His cancer of the base of the tongue / floor of the mouth is already stage four when they find it, and when he calls and tells me the news in a soft, halting voice, he delivers both punches at once: “I have cancer. It’s terminal.””
