I am so sick of men’s helplessness.
Palms outstretched, shoulders shrugging. “We don’t know what to do. We’re used to fixing things. And this, we can’t fix. We feel helpless. I’ve told you — I wish it were me in this position, rather than you.”
Well, you are helpless now, and so are we. The difference is, there was never any pretext about whether or not we’d fix things, because fixing is what we’ve always done. Quietly, and without fanfare. Things get done because we do them and move on, end of story. Continue reading “Home, Part Two: On Permission and Old Man Bullshit”
I’m headed to Minnesota on Tuesday, and will be there for two weeks, unless something gets better.
The cancer that’s in her lungs isn’t in her bones, but there is cancer in her bones — at least it’s described as a cancer on various medical websites, including the definitive cancer.org. But it can progress into acute myeloid leukemia, and is more prone to do so in older patients, and those afflicted with the kind of myelodysplastic syndrome that affects both red and white blood cell counts — which are both boxes my grandma checks. Continue reading “Home, Part One of Indefinite”
My mother took the cancer news well (from what I heard), which is to say she asked my grandma if she should be there, and my grandma said no, there’s nothing really for you to do, and no reason for you to come, and my mother called three days later to tell her she was on her way in a rented car, from Minneapolis.
Continue reading “Baby Fishmouth: A Family Unit’s Comical Failures to Communicate”
I have been prepared for heart problems. I have steeled myself for news of sudden heart attacks, and/or of the slow loss of the ability to breathe under a heart literally turning to chalk.
This most recent phone call, to tell me of the masses growing in her lungs — this I am not prepared for.