The suburban loser is already sitting at the kitchen table when his wife comes in to make coffee before work. He asks her if his ears are bleeding. They're not, but the numbness he's been feeling in his arm for the past month has made its way up to his head, and it hurts so bad he couldn’t sleep all night. His wife says it might be a stroke or even a heart attack. She drives him to the hospital. When they're halfway there, she turns around and drives back home because he forgot to grab his blood pressure medication. The suburban loser tells her to fuck off after she tells him he should have taken better care of his body. She doesn't know what she's talking about. At the hospital, they run some tests and tell him it doesn't look good. Likely a brain tumor, the type that kills you within a few months. They'll need surgery to confirm, but it might be time to start thinking about that sort of thing. Well, I wasn't expecting that, the suburban loser says to the doctor in the exam room, to his wife on the drive home, and to his two sons on the phone. He spends an hour in the driveway before going inside to feed the dog, his wife beside him, crying until she can't breathe. His youngest son says he's going to research the best doctors ever. His eldest son doesn't know what to say. There are more phone calls to make. The suburban loser looks at his house with a feeling close to boredom. He wishes it had been a heart attack, dreading the number of goodbyes he has to make.