The doctor wasn’t smiling. “There’s no way I can sugarcoat it. You have a rare, fatal disease and there is no known cure.”
“How to Die” – the three words on last week’s cover of Time magazine – made my heart race. I rushed to read what has assumed such powerful personal relevance ever since my unforgettable moment in the doctor’s office.
I had no previous warning.
It was just my annual physical exam. No health problems. No complaints. Both my mother and father lived into healthy old age. I figured I’d receive my usual reassuring words that all was well, coupled with the suggestion that I return in six months to a year.
It seemed strange that the doctor wasn’t smiling when he called me to his office to provide me with the results of his examinations. It was then I began to suspect something might be wrong.
