I hated the anger I felt towards him, hated the way I treated him in his moments of weakness. I hated the doctors that gave him the opiates that eventually took over his life, and I hated the disease that robbed me of the father that had taught me to play baseball and make the best ice cream sundaes in the world.
I was working on a project with a big magazine. We had a call with one of the writers, and I called from my hospital room. I had not told anyone that I was sick, or more importantly, that I was in the hospital. I am on the call with the writer and the head of the practice, and the phone disconnects.