Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's BĂȘte Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com

Saturday, September 17, 2005

My son and my dad, working on a construction project a few months ago.

We found out this week that my dad, who just turned 67, has cancer in his lungs and his lymph nodes. Not completely sure about the type of cancer; no prognosis yet. Preparing for the worst, hoping for recovery.

Might not be writing much for a while. Then again, I might be -- don't know. Words words words words words . . . don't always do the job -- and then again, they can be comforting distractions too -- and then, the world continues its spinning, and that's lovely too -- and then, my mind goes up in smoke or a breath of fog, a yawn, poof, gone -- what was that?

Dad -- best of fathers, best of grandfathers. Hoping he sticks around for another 15, 20, 25 years. We'll see.

UPDATE, Sunday: The kid and I fly to Michigan on Thursday for 6 days. Wanting to see Dad before he gets really visibly sick. This week-end has been easier than during the week; it's easier to be a mope when I don't have to get a lot done, and it's easier not to mope when I'm hanging out with the kid -- even when he's not delightful, he's almost always absorbing in a way that isn't alienating, as work is, even work that's for a good cause. We'll see how tomorrow goes. Last week, it was, work work work work work, and burst into tears as soon as I walk out of the office.

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