I just learned I only have months to live. This is what I want to say
As the saying goes, fate has dealt me one from the bottom of the deck, and I am now condemned to confront the question that has plagued me for years: How does a person spend what he knows are his final months of life? It's more painful than I anticipated to throw away files and paperwork that seemed critical to my survival just two weeks ago, and today, are all trash. I've had the privilege of having spent more than 60 years working for newspapers. DOES THE INTENSITY of a fatal illness clarify anything? Every day, I look at my wife's beautiful face more admiringly, and in the garden, I do stare at the long row of blue hydrangeas with more appreciation than before. The experts say more than 100 billion humans have died. There will be no more nights of winnowing the hours away listening to Bob Winter's piano at the Four Seasons. There'll be no more lazy afternoons on Boston Harbor aboard my little sailboat, The Butterfly, and no more surprise telephone calls from buddies like Dave Manzo in Boston, Alan Pergament in Buffalo, and Jim Coppersmith in Marblehead, who never hang up without saying, "I love you, Jack.".