Don’t worry. It’s just a cocktail party.
As I stood over my father’s hospital bed, I felt a profound sense of hopelessness, anger, and frustration. For two weeks I had wit-nessed the rapid deterioration of my dad’s health at Beth Israel Hospital in New York, from the time he entered until now. My dad had gone into the hospital with breathing issues, had been diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism, and had been given a good prognosis for quick recovery. But instead, as I looked at him, he could barely speak, had no idea what was happening around him, and was a shell of himself, slipping in and out of consciousness.
That alone would have been terrifying and frustrating—but that wasn’t what I was so angry about. I was angry because I ...