I wasn’t there for my father in his final hours. I kept hearing about his final hours from my mother, my sister, in fragments, in aftermaths, in half-whispered details. And when I think back now, I feel like I wasn’t there for him at all. Not in the final hours. Not in the final years. From the day of the diagnosis to his last day, I was in a mechanical, urgent kind of “action mode.” Hospital after hospital. Doctor after doctor. Reading medical papers and blogs like they were
