Fathers, Doctors, and Time

One Saturday morning in late October, when I was 12, I went hunting with my dad. It was the last thing we did together. He was 49, and usually I had trouble keeping up with him because he always walked so fast, happily energized, just from being out in nature. He always carried his gun as if it weighed nothing, and he would never come home before dark, no matter how early in the morning we started or how awful the weather. I, on the other hand, would heave my gun from shoulder to shoulder, frequently dropping it in the snow, or dragging it on the ground like a small artillery piece. Near the end of particularly long outings, he would often carry both our guns. Also unlike him, I usually couldn't wait to get back home to eat whatever my mom was cooking or watch TV.

That Saturday morning things were different. My dad lacked his usual vigor. This time it was he who seemed unable to keep the usual pace. Normally we'd chase our quarry over mountainsides all day, nonstop. This time we rested every 100 meters or so, even though it was still early in the morning and our first ascent. We went home shortly after reaching the top. Great, I thought, home before noon; …