Cancer

"Well, your father and I just wanted you to know that we got the test results back, and it looks like cancer."

That was how my mother told me, barely 24 hours ago. Her tone wasn't grave--it was more "We've decided to go with blue in the bathroom instead of red" than I would've anticipated. But, who could blame her? She was in shock. I was in shock.

I am still in shock: My father is never sick. And now he has lung cancer.

We don't know anything yet, which is the worst stage. We're an information oriented family. On vacation, we are the palest four people on board, slathered in suntan lotion, reading non-fiction and stopping the captain to ask about the navigational systems. In the midst of the "Which way to Senor Frog?" questions, we are the ones asking, "Excuse me? Is that plant an epiphyte?." We talk longitudes and latitudes and etymology and geology and we love to watch the Weather Channel. So, when you are a doctor, and you tell us "We don't know anything yet," we will--all four of us--just blink at you for long moments, trying to understand how that is possible.