He seems pale and tired. At least all the water weight is gone and he’s not bloated. He doesn’t get up and grab a piece of fruit every five minutes like last time. Sugar cravings transferred from drinking. Not that he was a heavy drinker. Liver cancer came as a shock.
He lives in a large house, has a good pension, is part owner of race horses, and has a place down the shore. His kids are grown; his wife does all the gardening, interspersing plants and rocks. We talk sports, sitting on his porch deck waiting for the Met game. The Hackensack River flows past, paralleled by traffic from the Turnpike.
I notice more wrinkles, especially around the neck. He could still lose another 15 pounds. Sometimes his eyes seem unfocused.
We talk money market versus certificates of deposit. We talk about the latest political corruption scandals. We talk about his two grown kids. We talk about a new thriller he has begun reading. We talk a little bit about the experimental treatment he is receiving, how he was awake and in pain through most of the last session. You need to talk to your doctor about that, I say.
I seem to have nothing more insightful to contribute. I am a smart man who goes blank at the wrong time. So we pass the afternoon talking, eating pretzels, and watching the Mets, the traffic, the river.
I recall an August two years before that, when our family went down to Freehold Raceway and watched his horse win. He was like a kid, smiling at the circus around him. Grasping his winning tickets the way he grasped life.
Sometimes summer isn’t really summer. – Joe Del Priore
(Editor’s Note: Robert passed away Nov. 3. He was 59.)
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