The week I got back home to New York after spending my junior year of college in England, two unexpected things happened. I got a phone call offering me an internship in Manhattan that I’d been rejected for months earlier and my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor.
Read MoreWhat was said: The cancer has returned, Bob. Your pelvis lit up like a Christmas tree on the PET scan. There’s nothing more to do, but go home for hospice.
What it felt like: We’ve scheduled your plane crash, Bob. Prepare to depart at Gate 7D.
Read MoreOn a bus across the city, university to main station, sometime in late June, I spent five endless minutes alternating between three thoughts.
One. Why do I feel like crying?
Two. I am going to throw up.
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