OK, somebody beat the shit out of me for getting sentimental. My father would have been 68 years old today. He died of cancer when I was 19. My mother called me tonight, and for the first time in 22 years, she didn't mention my father. I didn't say anything, either. My sister is in Europe, and we haven't heard from her. He was only 46 when he died, and I remember at the time thinking that wasn't so young, and now I realize, damn, 46 was soooo young. Poor fellow. He really did take it like a man, though. I've always been impressed as hell by how he dealt with dying. He never said anything about it. He just took it a day at a time, got weaker, got sicker, took to bed, went to hospital, kept joking all the way, and then he died. His last words were, "I love you, honey." Jesu, mother always said he was a heartbreaker.
Well, I guess we could start a whole new blab of death-by-cancer stories, nothing special here, but I guess today's silence just kind of moved me.
I now revert to your more familiar smart-ass Hilde.