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My ears picked up the faint sound of a hacking cough. Without thinking, I marched into the hospital room. Before me, in a flimsy gown, was the skeleton-like figure of my father. His arms were twitching uncontrollably.

His eyes were blank. They rolled to whatever caught his attention for a split second. I noticed a large white patch taped to his neck. "Dad," I whispered, "it's David."

No reaction. I lay down next to him, my face just above his. "Dad? Hey, Dad! It's me, David."

Minutes crawled by. I wanted to grab the sides of his face and squeeze out some type of reply.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and discovered it belonged to a nurse called Steve. "What's wrong with him?" I demanded.

Leading me down the corridor, Steve said: "It was about four months ago when your father was admitted . . ."

"Four months?" I asked incoherently. "How long has he been . . . like he is now?"

"Well," Steve began, "his condition has rapidly deteriorated. The growth was primaril Biography of john knox!