“I’m concerned,” the doctor said. “I’m scheduling a brain M.R.I. Immediately.”
I dropped Willem at his appointment five blocks away and went to pick up Jake at preschool.
Before Willem got home, the phone rang. It was our doctor, who said softly: “I am sorry but I have very bad news. Your husband has glioblastoma, which is the worst form of brain cancer.”
Jake had opened the refrigerator and was pouring orange juice on the floor.
“Do you want me to tell him?” the doctor asked.
Jake was tugging on my sleeve to show me his handiwork.
“No, no, thank you,” I murmured. “I’ll tell him. Tell me one thing: Is he going to die?”
“Yes,” he said.http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/07/fashion/07love.html?ex=1325826000&en=1690533a979424e2&ei=5090&partner=rssuserland&emc=rss