[img]1|left|||no_popup[/img]Doctors told my considerably younger brother-in-law this morning he has 60 days to live.
It is not as if there has been a buildup. This was the first diagnosis. He entered the hospital yesterday morning.
Six months ago last week, we buried my hardy father on the eve of his 94th birthday, and soon it will be time to cinch up our feelings for another funeral.
Our family is not to be confused with eternal beings.
But we have been cursed with few deaths over the years, several of them lingering, but thankfully all of them natural.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was feeling sorry for myself, a specific sorry. In the past, writing about this periodic lowliness has been cathartic. It sped me through Pop’s final illness.
Visiting a couple nights ago with a sister I seldom speak to and even more rarely see, I was retracing familial steps from younger days. The subject was my choice of former wives.
Where’s That Wedding Planner?
Had I possessed the foresight to designate them “former” wives from the beginning — the way the revisionist media Whores for Obama have been running around diagnosing the Muslim terrorist Hasan with an unprecedented dose of “Pre” Traumatic Stress Disorder — I could have saved myself years of heartache.
The father of four sons, this should be perhaps the most joyous portion of the year because my third-born turned 26 yesterday and my first-born catches Jack Benny and turns 39 on Sunday.
Emotional upbeatedness vanished long ago when my sons were pint-sized, during the second of two painful divorces. My youngest son, who turned 20 years old at the end of summer, is in the same bracket as his birthday brothers, MIA.
My three boys may as well be residing on the moon because No. 1 I have not seen, or spoken with, for 10 years. No. 3 I have not seen or spoken with for 14 months, when he unaccountably stopped taking my calls. He lives barely walking distance from my office, but it may as well be 10,000 miles. My fourth son disappeared from my life the day of his bar mitzvah, seven years ago. The son with whom my wife and I have breakfast every Sunday told me recently, “You probably would not recognize him, Dad, if he walked in the door. He looks completely different.” I lavish all of my love on this son, who is 28 years old, and the rewards I am reaping are rather overwhelming.
Abrupt Change of Direction
I was pondering whether to write for selfishly cathartic purposes when the telephone rang, rupturing my reverie with the message that my brother-in-law had entered the hospital. He was facing a grave prognosis a week after his mysteriously ill daughter was released from the hospital.
For the last 24 hours, I have been reflecting:
What if I were in my brother-in-law’s tragic position?
He and my sister, recent empty-nesters who live on the other side of the country, had just announced plans to visit their newly promoted son next month in Arizona. In my weekly postcard to them, I suggested we could hop over and rendezvous.
Instead, my nephew is making hurried, nervous plans to fly home.
If the doctor imposes a 60-day deadline on your life, what would you do?
Travel? Hug your wife fulltime? Go to bed and stay?
