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" Frances and I met at a coffee shop on Beverly Blvd called Insomnia. The kind of place where wannabe screenwriters congregate, looking deathly serious, huddled around their computers with iPod headphones in their ears. Frances arrived in green hospital scrubs.  &amp;quot;Sorry,&amp;quot; she said. &amp;quot;I would have changed into something nicer, but I&amp;#039;m on my lunch break.&amp;quot;  She was pretty in a natural sort of way. Unlike most of the floozies Dad hooked up with, Frances was the kind of blue-blooded, blond, and blue-eyed beauty they only produced in places like Minnesota or Kansas. (Turns out she was from Detroit, so what the hell do I know.) I could tell she must have been a knockout when she was in her 20s. The only signs that gave away her age now were the wrinkles by her eyes and her hands. She had old-lady hands.  She sat in front of me with her hands folded, sitting upright like a dancer. I would later learn she has practiced yoga for 25 years.  &amp;quot;So, you work at a hospital?&amp;quot; I asked.  &amp;quot;Well, only when the doctor needs me. Mostly I just work in the office. Your dad must have told you\u2026&amp;quot; There was an awkward silence, as it began to register with her that I hadn&amp;#039;t heard a thing. &amp;quot;Oh, dear. Oh, Frank.&amp;quot;  Feeling bad, I covered for Dad. I&amp;#039;d done this countless times while he was alive, why not during the afterlife? &amp;quot;No, no. He mentioned you a few times to me. I just didn&amp;#039;t think you had to wear scrubs around the office.&amp;quot;  She laughed to herself, holding her teacup up to her lips with both hands as she sized me up. &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re a terrible liar, just like your father. Don&amp;#039;t worry about it. I work in Dr. Mark&amp;#039;s office.&amp;quot; The name rang a bell. &amp;quot;Your father visited him twice a week to get his chemotherapy treatments. I used to sit with him and talk during those sessions. After those were done, he would come back twice a week sometimes for no reason at all. And sometimes the doctor wouldn&amp;#039;t even need to see him, but we&amp;#039;d take the time to catch up and flirt. Your dad was quite the flirt.&amp;quot;  Oh, really?  &amp;quot;I felt very privileged to know him during what would be the last years of his life. He opened up to me in ways that, at first, were a bit alarming, but eventually I looked forward to his visits all day. Your dad was ready to confess all, and I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. But you already know this, I suppose. He always mentioned how crazy he was about you. He called you his Wildcard. The son he never expected to make much of his life, ends up being a superstar.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;He said that?&amp;quot; I said, chocking back a tear.  &amp;quot;Oh, he said so much, Zach. So much. I know everything. About your mom, Becky, Mike, and Brittany, and all those women who came before, in between, and after. See, what started off as casual conversations in the waiting room escalated into something more. I think your father knew he was no longer for this world, and he wanted to get it all out there. Every last detail.  &amp;quot;Coincidentally, when we first met, I was taking an online class in journalism. It has always been my dream to write about some of the extraordinary people I meet at the office. One of our assignments was to write a Q&amp;amp;amp;A with someone special, so I asked Frank if I could record our conversations. And I never turned off the tape recorder. For two years, I interviewed and listened to your father tell his life story and watched it all unfold like some insane tragic comedy. I transcribed every word until the very end. And you know something? I think he knew it was the end because our last time together he actually gave me an ending. He was at peace. For the first time in his life, he was at peace. And now I&amp;#039;m gonna publish it in a book, just like he wanted.&amp;quot; "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/love-sex/mens-perspective/a2830/diary-he-042008/>