I walked into my home in midtown Toronto following a night shift in the ER. It was noon on an autumn Saturday just over a year ago and it had been 31 hours since I’d last slept. I planned on heading straight to bed, but the phone rang.

It was a nurse, calling from the retirement home where my dad, Sam Goldman, had been living for three years. “I’m with your father now,” she said. “He felt tired this morning and didn’t come to the dining room for breakfast.”

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