A routine X-ray on a routine day in a routine waiting room reading a routine news magazine, until a fellow walks up to me to introduce himself.
I'm sorry, I don't even recall his name. I do recall his few words:
"Three months, can you believe that, Mr. Cavuto?"
"I'm sorry?," I said.
"Three months. That's all I got."
Again, I'm confused. At first, I thought he was talking about what seemed like the interminable wait to see a radiologist.
No, he was talking about dying. This guy had three months to live.
He told me he had just heard the news the day before and he was still wrestling with it and with that number. Three months.
"One more Thanksgiving, Cavuto."
"One more Christmas."
I was so flummoxed, I didn't know what to say. I think I said, "I'm sorry." Mainly because I was so stunned.
This man, maybe a few years older than me, was alone. I hoped he had a spouse, or child, or friend: somebody — anybody — to get him through this. It didn't look that way.
By the time I came out of my appointment, he had gone and I returned to work to focus on a Dow that might hit a record and a growing Republican scandal that might sink a party.
They both seemed to lose their punch. Thinking more about that man, who in 90 days, maybe less, was due to lose something more... his life.
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