Two months ago I could not have even started to guess the turn in direction my life would have taken to now.
Two weeks ago, not even in my wildest dreams, would I have predicted an event thirty years in the making would finally occur.
And, sadly, the circumstances surrounding had to be beyond tragic.
Last Saturday, my birth father collapsed after what his family describes is a long agitated streak of moody instabilities. Culprit of perhaps both: one golf ball sized malignant tumor located just behind and above his right eye. After a nearly twelve hour surgery, the doctors were sadly not able to remove it all. Now, courses of chemotherapy and radiation have been laid out, and me and the rest of the family have been advised that two years is the outside figure of how much longer we have to learn about a man as mysterious as his offspring.
Two years - same time but now past of when I first met my father. He came to my apartment after tracking me down... we shared a brief and emotional lunch at a now defunct crepe house. Pictures were shared, tears we wrought, and the outing had not been repeated since.
Seven months - how long past that my brother and I met for the first time and had a similar experience over lunch.
The phone call came early Sunday morning. My brother, still unsure of the final diagnosis, requested that I come down when I can. I took an hour long run before finally sticking myself in the car for the hour long drive to the hospital where he was being examined. The weather - windy and rainy. The first meeting - in a stark, outdated, empty cafeteria. The first words - jumbled. The first emotion - tears.
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