My Father Narrowly Escaped The Nazis. Here's What I Learned While Helping Him Die.
This man is a survivor, I kept telling myself, despite all evidence to the contrary. His face was gaunt, cheeks pale, hair threadbare from the most recent rounds of chemo. They had removed the lower left half of his jaw, searching for remnants of the disease, and his mouth hung slack and uneven. Even so, he kept trying to smile, to lighten the mood. His brown eyes danced when no other part of him could.