The Ride Home - Page 5


"Jesus," Dad murmured as the car started forward, "can you imagine what your mom would say if I beat cancer only to be killed by a deer in the road?"

I smiled. "She'd kill you."

"Mike, when I was your age, just before I became a therapist, I was in the same boat as you are. For me it wasn't about making a lot of money, but it was about being a big shot right out of college, I'd gotten involved in radical politics and civil rights. I thought I was really helping people, but the truth was that I was much more focused on playing the role of a Great Radical Progressive."

"Really?" I said, shooting a quick look over at him. But my surprise quickly faded. Even if it had been an ego trip for him, at least he was trying to help people. I reminded him that my first job out of college was working for an Internet start-up, hoping to become a millionaire by 25. And when the dotcom bubble burst, I didn't go help a third-world country: I just moved right on over to finance.

It often felt that most of the people I knew—especially my parents—were genuinely connected to their work. I'd always seemed to be interested only in doing things that matched my sense of who I should be. The only time I'd felt otherwise was following my dad's diagnosis of lymphoma. Then all I really cared about was him. As painful as it'd been to see him so weakened, it'd also been strangely liberating—I finally had a sense of purpose. All I had wanted to do was help Dad get through this. Nothing else mattered.

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