We learned about my husband's inoperable brain tumor from a nurse who doled out the news as though providing his cholesterol count. Mark stood frozen. I clutched at him and wailed.
“Are you OK?” the nurse asked.
Was she insane? Which part of this could remotely be described as OK?
Mark worried about how we would tell the kids, three adult children from his first marriage and our 11-year-old daughter.
“We will tell them,” he said thoughtfully, “that we hit a rough patch.” Only Mark could refer to a widespread brain tumor as a “rough patch.”
My husband was a hardcore journalist, relentless in pursuit of a good story, no matter whose sacred cow he skewered. He...