J and I are lying about on the floor. I’m stroking her head with a wet cloth and she is looking up appreciatively through those tell-tale, droopy eyes. She has fallen feverish and I’ve just gone through the ritual call to the advice nurse and been told to hang tight and watch for A, B, or C to happen in the coming days. Same old story. Call us when she’s 104. They never share a father’s sense of urgency.

For some reason I tell J. about a friend of mine who found out he was sick about a month ago, and not the kind of sick that a cold compress and a Pedialyte popsicle can do much for.

Oren has stage four cancer