Tag Archives: cancer

breaking

20 May

I have seen my father break. Crushed under the weight of the illness and death of his own father when I was a teenager. Then again when cancer took his mother and only brother within mere weeks of each other. I know what it looks like when my father breaks. And there is no shame or weakness in the breaking.

Now I watch my mother. I watch her carefully and in awe as she cares for her dying mother knowing that this will be their last Mother’s Day together in this life. I see my forlorn grandfather lean on his oldest daughter for support as he watches his partner of 63 years slip away from him. I watch my mother as she processes the loss of another family member who took their own life this very week.

Outwardly, my mother shows no signs of breaking. But I wonder when the cracks will show. My father and I wait until she leaves her brief respite to return to care for grandmother. Then dad and I cry together for her. We all break differently. And there is no shame in the breaking.

June 30, 1937 – May 15, 2018

when your friends have cancer

13 May

My friends are sick. Two of them, from completely different circles in my life. I am what they have in common. That, and cancer. Bone cancer, breast cancer. They want to take my friend’s jaw completely off. They’ve already taken part of my friend’s breast.

A singer’s jaw. A mother’s breast. Life is full of shitty irony.

I’m watching them break down but I do not let them see me do the same on such a lesser scale. I send cards, I go visit, I text, I offer to go to doctor’s appointments, to come sit next to them. It’s never enough. For now, it’s 3:30am and all I know to do at this moment is write and cry.

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