Just as simple as that–’He’s dead.’ My father’s life was over. Meyer Nudelman’s life was over. And yet, I was somehow not surprised. And on the other hand, I was.

‘But how? What do you mean? It can’t be.’

‘We found him when we got to his bed on rounds, about half an hour ago. I have no idea how long he’d been that way.’

‘But I just saw him on Wednesday and he was fine.’

‘I know. He was okay all day long. It must have happened suddenly while he was lying in bed. The patient next to him thought he was sleeping.’

I was, after all, a doctor. Possible causes of death should have been flying from my tongue–pulmonary embolus, massive coronary, ruptured aneurysm, et cetera, et cetera–and there were appropriate clinical questions to ask. But nothing of the sort happened. Dully, without being able to think of anything more to say, I thanked Furman for all he had done for my father and then hung up, still both incredulous and not. Hardly a Moses, Meyer Nudelman had seen the promised land of his son’s future, but he would never enter it.

Oh man, this book was really good. I teared up a few times, and it really does have me pondering on mortality, and how we face it and persevere. How do deaths of those we know segment our lives? There is always the before and the after, the after encompassing a drastic change. I don't know, I'm tired, sad, and, therefore, reflective right now, but I cannot articulate it well. Oh well, just know, for now, that this is great.