“The doctors have found a mass in my brain,” he said. “They believe that it's benign, but because of where it's located, it's impossible to remove.”
I grabbed the corner of my dad's desk, not trusting my legs to keep me from falling over. I felt a churning in my gut and a fluttering in my chest. I'd expected the news to not be good, but actually hearing it coming out of his mouth, confirming my fears still hit me like a runaway train.
“Benign? That means it's not cancerous,” I said. “That's a good thing, right?”
My dad's eyes looked over at me, taking me in carefully before he answered. He took my mother's hand and squeezed it gently before speaking again.
“It's not cancerous, no,” he said. “But, because of where it's located, it will likely cause other issues.”
“Other issues?”
My dad's voice cracked, which rattled me to the core. My father was not an emotional man. I didn't think I'd ever seen him shed a single tear in my entire life. So, to hear his voice crack, to hear it as thick with emotion as it was, made a profound and telling statement to me.
My mom cleared her throat and continued for him. “What your father is trying to say, Malcolm, is based on where the tumor is at, it's likely to eventually cause some mental difficulties for him.”
Mental difficulties. I still didn't understand it all, and it must have been obvious from the look on my face. Perhaps it was shock, or disbelief, but none of it made any sense. It all seemed utterly surreal to me. I shook my head to deny the reality of it all, but when I looked back at them, at their stone-faced stoicism, the ugly reality hit me all over again.
My dad was the strongest man I'd ever known, and nothing – not even a tumor – could take him down. I'd genuinely believed that he was one of those superhuman beings that simply could not be beaten and who could conquer anything set in their path.
I'd watched him start his company from scratch. Watched him build it into a thriving empire, a force to be reckoned with in the pharmaceutical industry. Even when times were tough, during the recession, my dad was strong and stood tall, battling the problems as they came, head-on. He never back down, never gave in, and never once did I see him falter.
Surely this wasn't something he couldn't overcome.
Dad finally found the words. “Malcolm, I'm going to suffer from memory loss, seizures, dementia and eventually death,” he said bluntly, as direct and to the point as ever. “The doctors have given me two years to live—at most-- which means there are preparations and considerations to be made.”
My nails dug into the wood of his desk, scratching it until a splinter pierced my fingernail. The sharp pain radiating through my hand brought me back to the here and now.
“How can it kill you?” I asked. “It's not cancer. I don't understand.”
“Even benign brain tumors can be deadly,” he explained. “The brain is a complex organ, Malcolm.”
Dad's voice was calmer than it should have been for someone who was facing his own death. But, he talked about it rationally and logically, answering all of our questions with grace and aplomb. That's just who he was. Always stoic, professional and strong.
Even when he was coming face-to-face with his mortality.
“It can't be cured, but it does mean I have more time that I would if it had been malignant, Malcolm,” he said. “And knowing I have a short shelf life has made me realize something very important. I've spent so much time running my business, making money, and trying to leave a legacy behind, that I've neglected those who matter most to me – my family. With the clock ticking, I'm focusing on what’s most important – the people in this very room.”
“You've always been an amazing father,” I said. “You have nothing to atone for. Nothing to prove to any of us.”
Adam side-eyed me, but kept his mouth shut. He hadn't said a single word since Dad mentioned the diagnosis, and I finally glanced over at him. He was standing up straight, his body stiff, but he was otherwise calm. His face was passive. If anything, he looked – bored.
It was as if my father's words had no effect on him. Maybe he'd inherited my father's stoicism, or maybe he actually didn't care about my dad. Our dad. It was hard to tell, and I tried not to make any rash judgements in the heat of
an emotional moment. But, seeing him there, silent and relaxed, caused my blood to boil from the inside out. I wanted to lash out, grab him, and get his face. I wanted to scream at him, asking him what in the hell was wrong with him.
I did none of that though. I simply stood there, trying to let the profound implications of this news sink in.
“Family has always been important to me, just as it was to my own father before me,” Dad continued. “I've been neglecting my family legacy. Which is why I make one request, and only one request, from you, my sons.”
“Anything, Dad,” I said. Adam, of course, said nothing.
“I have approximately two years left on this earth,” he said. “I need to know I'm leaving a legacy behind, a strong Crane lineage that will continue long after I'm dead.”
Adam adjusted his footing, shifting on the balls of his feet. In his view, things were suddenly getting interesting.
“Which brings me to the topic of your inheritance, sons,” he said. “I would rather not wait until after my death to share my wealth with the two of you, but I need to be sure of one thing – that the Crane legacy lives on and is strong, and will be, well beyond the two of you, my only children.”
“What's that supposed to mean, Dad?”