Whose death is it, anyway?

Abstract

It was a nasty, icy morning in January when I drove my father for his first biopsy. I knew he would need someone to drive him home after the procedure, but I was very surprised when he asked me to drive him there as well. My father was very invested in control in all aspects of his life and it seemed uncharacteristic of him to relinquish the driving to me. Although I had just turned forty, having grown up primarily in Southern California I had only in the previous year done any driving in snowy weather.