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So I’m spending time with my dad, who is 83, in the ICU unit at Stanford Hospital. Without going into the gory details, he’s in bad shape. The only thing keeping him alive, I’m convinced, is that he’s one tough, depression-raised, millionaire-by-his-own-bootstraps, mother-effing son of a bitch. I’ve seen more than one doctor look at his chart, see the man breathing in the bed and shake his/her head.

OK, so today, my dad’s razor-sharp mind gives way to the zillion drugs that are being pumped into him. He isn’t quite in touch with reality at the moment. Now, you have to picture the scene. His body is swollen from infection and kidney problems. His belly is freshly stitched and minus its colon. He’s got eight bags of medicine being pumped into his body, and tubes in nearly every orifice to carry the waste away.

So Dad looks at me and says sincerely, “Am I still alive?”

My father is a believer, and I suppressed a grin.

“Dad, don’t worry,” I said. “You’re alive. You know how you can tell? Look all around you. This surely isn’t heaven.”

His eyes took in his surroundings and he replied, “I guess you’re right.”