As if my life wasn’t in enough turmoil, my father was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer, well beyond any point of hope for successful treatment. Only 61 years old, he learned he had “6 months, hopefully a little more” to live.
We had been estranged for some time, but this lead him to reach out and reconnect. I think it’s fair to say we liked each other more than either of us expected, whether because he had to give up drinking or I had “given up” my marriage or just because the specter of mortality made better humans of us both. We caught up quickly and I joined him on a road trip to bring Kurt back to St. Louis, and the three of us went on a summer trip to the Frankfurt area and Paris.