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My mom called this morning while I was on the way to the office for an hour-long meeting. You better pull over, she said. I did. Your dad has cancer. He had surgery yesterday, completely unrelated, and they found cancer. Very advanced stage. They could tell just by looking at it, without running any tests. You should be prepared for the worst.

I cried, called Husband who is away from home for a month. What should I do? Should I go now? I want to see him before it’s too late. I want to bring the kids, at least Baby—he hasn’t met Baby, and I know it would mean so much to him. But Baby doesn’t have a passport, so I need to figure out a way to get one soon.

Let’s talk about it this weekend, Husband said, when all of us are together for Baby’s baptism.

The plan was for me and the boys to fly to Midwest tomorrow for Saturday’s baptism, spend a week there to help break up my five-week single-parenting stint, and come back home on Labor Day, with Husband returning home two weeks later. OK, I said, OK, just keep breathing. I got myself together and walked into the office.

And hour later, my mom called again.

Your dad just died.

I have SO MUCH to say about how I feel. About how much this hurts. About how the memories I suppressed from my parents’ divorce 20 years ago are resurfacing now. About how the guilt for not keeping in better touch with him is tearing me apart. About how completely unprepared I am to deal with a death of a parent; most people my age are just starting to lose their grandparents, not parents. About how hard it is to fall apart in front of your kids without being able to fully explain to them what’s happened. About how much I’ve simply needed a hug today, a simple human touch.

But I have to pack. Not the kind of packing I was planning to do for a leisurely week at the in-laws' house, but a suitcase full of black, full of grief. We are still heading to the Midwest tomorrow, but right after the baptism, I will be getting on the plane alone to go half-way across the world to bury my dad.