A couple years ago, I called my dad to check up on him while he was in the hospital. I can’t recall what sent him there this particular time, but he picked up the phone, light-hearted and positive as ever. “How you feelin’, Dad?” I asked. 

“Everything’s all good,” he told me. “I’m perfectly healthy.” 

I rolled my eyes and recounted to him his current ailments. The “perfectly healthy” part was an exaggeration, to say the least. And was he really “all good”? 

I made my skepticism clear, to which he retorted, “Well, this is nothing compared to being shot down in the middle of a war.”

Okay, well played, Dad. I don’t know what it’s like to fly a helicopter and get shot down. Even so, I shook my head, both annoyed at my dad’s apparent denial of his poor health and wondering how he could be so upbeat in a hospital bed.