My Dad is sick.
I knew he was sick, but didn't know how sick until yesterday. Before I thought it was "stop eating sausage pizza and try jogging and popping more Gaviscon" sick. Now he's going to the Mayo Clinic to be evaluated for potential surgery and we're having conversations about whether Jenny and I should undergo genetic testing.
I can't stop thinking of the Cottage Inn Pizza on Stadium Road in Ann Arbor. One time when I was maybe ten or eleven, Dad and I drove there to pick up a takeout order. Dad asked the pimply high-school kid behind the counter how he was doing and the kid jokingly replied "Fine, sir, but I could sure go for an ice-cream bar." Dad paid for our order and had me wait by the counter for the pizza while he went to the gas station next door. He walked back in a few minutes later and handed the surprised kid an ice cream sandwich.
He won't tell me how bad it is. After a day of Googling "hypertrophic cardiomyopthy," I can't tell what he's not sharing. Our family is spread out all over the country and he's alone.
I can't wrap my head around this. I'm not even sure where to begin.
He's going to be fine, because he has to be. Because anything else is too scary to think about.