My dad’s got cancer. I just found out tonight. It’s not as bad as it could be, fairly common in men his age. The doctor figures a 76 percent survival rate 5 years after treatment. That’s decent odds, I suppose, but 34 percent of a whole, whole lot of people is still a whole lot of people. And I would really rather my father not be one of them.

And there’s gonna be some treatment, too. Invasive stuff. There will be surgery and radiation and the planting of radioactive seeds deep in his body. If movies and television have taught me anything, it is that these radioactive seeds may cure this cancer, but they may also turn my father into the Swamp Thing.

We just lost my grandpa last month. My grandmother’s 94, and while she is doing well for her age, nobody in their mid-nineties is doing awesome. My Dad’s mom is out in a home in Indiana, depressed and making the nurses hate her and life will not stop getting realer and realer every week for any of us, ever.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get into my bed and watch Indiana Jones search for the Holy Grail with his dad — and wish like hell I could give my Dad a sip from that cup.