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That November day in 2004 began like so many others: off to early Mass, breakfast at Sparky’s Diner, and then on to work. It started taking a different turn late in the morning, when my son Tom called, asking that I drive him to a doctor’s appointment. I can still see Tom, sitting in the hospital bed with tears flowing down his face, trying to comprehend this. All of us were stunned. We just couldn’t believe that such a thing was happening to a thirty-three-year-old man who was otherwise active and healthy, just at the start of his life.
It was for some “routine” tests, he told me on the way over—just to check out some minor stomach pains he’d been experiencing for the last few months. But when Tom came out of the doctor’s office, he was saying something about blood levels and going to the hospital for an immediate CATscan. It was there that not just my day but my life began to unravel.
Kelly, Tom’s wife of eighteen months, and my wife, Barbara, were with us when we were given the test results: Tom had stage four stomach cancer that had spread to his liver and lungs. The survival rate was less than ten percent. Praying and Pleading. Our parish had begun Eucharistic adoration just a month before, and I had signed up for Sundays at 4:00 a.m. Getting up so early was a real…
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