My dad had just been diagnosed with stage IV melanoma when my husband, 14-year-old daughter and I flew from our home in Philadelphia to the house in Florida where my parents lived as snowbirds each winter. By the time we arrived, my dad was down 20 pounds, his trademark spark of humor gone from his eyes. It was hard to believe this was the same 76-year-old who, only weeks earlier, had been playing tennis twice a week.
Dad spent much of our visit resting on the couch. I assumed we would skip my Jewish family's annual tradition of a Christmas matinee, but the remake of "True Grit" had just been released and my father wanted to see it in a theater. I called my siblings, and we made plans to meet.
