It's about 12:30 on Friday night, and I'm restless. It's that four-in-the-morning-let's-go-to-Waffle-House kind of restlessness that comes with bad news and a long night. Mental exhaustion has set in, taking the edge off any dull emotional ache that might have survived the day. Still, sleep will only come when my emotions are completely dead, when there's no energy left to think, not even about being tired.
My father has lung cancer.
He was characteristically stoic when he told me -- "it is what it is" -- and seemed unprepared for my dismay. It is what it is, he repeated.
There's really nothing else to say.