We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.
— Marcel Proust
* * * * *
On May 17, 2001, Barbara called to tell me my father had passed away. It had been five years since I had seen him and more than fifteen since I had seen Barbara. I barely remembered her. She told me my father had been in the hospital for three weeks. The doctors had been calling me repeatedly, but oddly enough, I never got a single call or message. They thought maybe I didn’t care, but Barbara felt I should know anyway so she phoned me directly. This time I received the call.
Although my relationship with my father had been strained for years, I didn’t hesitate to book the earliest flight I could. My boyfriend Gordon, the only romantic partner who had ever met my father, packed his bags as well. We flew out the next morning.
