The surgeon’s face told us the news wasn’t good. My stepfather’s brain surgery had taken longer than anticipated and now we gathered to hear the results. The doctor was matter of fact. I assume there is no good way to share this kind of news. No doubt he spoke complete sentences, but all we heard were the words that pierced our hearts—brain cancer. Terminal. Six to nine months to live. When he finished, the doctor said he was sorry, and then left the room. Then my mother burst into tears. My sister and I cradled her as she went through a series of emotions. Anger—she raged at God. Questions—why him and not her? Denial—this was not happening.

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