Biting the bullet

School starts on Tuesday.

My third-year review file will be due toward the end of October.

I've been watching the new Doctor Who series with Christopher Eccleston. It's funny, charming, sweet, and just all around a lovely distraction.

My mom isn't well. Last week, some test results indicated that the chemo was working and the recent kidney scare was in the past. This week, her fever has returned and her appetite is pretty much non-existent; her doctors advised that she skip chemo until she's feeling better. She tells me she's been trying to eat broth and jello and anything that doesn't taste like anything. I leave next Friday for a (planned) quick weekend visit.

I'm trying to think of ways to feel less like pavement. Like I guess I could wear earrings and paint my toenails--pavement doesn't do either of those things. But I'm open to any and all suggestions. So suggestions please!

Hippopajamas

All thumbs 2--or--blah blah blah blah blah

I've been trying to rethink Pan's Labyrinth in terms of magic realism (as a genre) because, well, theorizing is (stupidly) safe. And when you're feeling non-theoretically vulnerable, a little bit of heady BS makes for a nice palliative.

While Pan's Labyrinth is not clearcut magic realism, it does exhibit one of the most consistent attributes found in magic realist texts: real and magic components collapse into each other to deconstruct and then obliterate meaning. Despite Ofelia's attempts to find solace from loss (of nation, father, mother) in Pan's magical world, that world of fantasy suffers from the same problems and is similarly traumatizing for her. In weaving these two worlds together (with Ofelia as the desperate thread), the film leaves us not with meaning, or redemption, or hope ... but simply painful experience. Most magic realist texts have loving and happy experience side by side with the painful--but, yeah, NOTHING in this one. (In that way, it resonates with that one chapter in Isabel Allende's House of the Spirits, in which Clara is being tortured.) There is no light at the end of the tunnel ... and Ofelia's (or, really, it would the audience's at this point) ability to imagine that end place in which she can rest in peace (king, queen, and princess reunited) is understood as a ridiculously desperate gesture. And, in some ways, it is. But it is what it is. Loss is loss. And you don't handle it so much as cling to it because ... what else are you going to do when something can NEVER be again?

The problem here is that we usually associate that "clinging" with hope--in the movies we see, that is. We've grown accustomed, I think, to films with ambiguous endings; would I be going too far to say that perhaps ambivalent conclusions are the new Hollywood kiss? Ambivalent endings once meant that the film was challenging the status quo--challenging our expectations. But perhaps, now, ambiguity is itself status quo. We live our lives so quickly and haphazardly that we expect ambiguity in all its shades of grey. So much so that we've grown (or I've grown ...) suspicious of a film that ends with the Hollywood kiss--unsatisfied, unbelieving. Instead, it's the ambiguous ending that seems weirdly comfortable and hopeful--the ending in which we can imagine the possibility of future happiness without having to commit to it. These wishy-washy films--they're losing something for me. Perhaps I'm starting to question why I always cling to the hopeful side of things, despite the simultaneous promise of calamity. Or perhaps I've grown tired of being lazy--that I'd like a clear decision rather than to have several options open to me. But now I'm just rambling.

You could argue that there is ambiguity in Pan's Labyrinth, but I would probably disagree with you. If anything, the film is painfully and horribly in your face and unabashed about being so. And I think I've decided that I don't think that's a good or bad thing. It is what it is (though I would say something about why the female suffers and the male heir gets to survive--but that's all social commentary). Pan's Labyrinth leaves us clinging only to loss, loss, and more loss. Of course I'm not suggesting that all film should now follow suit and be as horribly brutal as Pan, but hey, maybe postmodernism's heyday is finally over. And that would be good.

In conclusion, thank god that I'll always have Mirrormask for when the Pan's Labyrinths get to be too much. Hooray for Mirrormask. You know what you get when you joggle the BA-NA-NAS?!!!

Oh and also--blah blah blah blah blah.

All thumbs

I really wish that someone had warned me that Pan's Labyrinth would not be a good movie for me to watch tonight.

A beautiful film. Definitely. Not a fantasy film, though. Realist to the core, when it comes down to it. And the reality it suggests is one of those that surprises you with your own reality in the harshest kind of way.

I don't know if anyone else had that experience or if it was just me and how I don't think my mom is doing too well right now. Earlier this evening, she asked me if I could come visit her sometime soon, just for a few days. How did she put it? To make her eyes and her ears and her thoughts light. I'm not sure what to do. I think I'm aiming for the first weekend after school starts (in September). Is that what I should do?

This apartment feels empty and my belly feels bloated.

Holy shit

I guess we do treat shit like it's holy. One must not speak of shit. One must not look directly at it. As for actually touching shit?--out of the question.

Unless, of course, there are circumstances in which you're forced to become rather intimate with your bowels and the movements thereof. One such circumstance is when your mom is dying from metastatic colon cancer and you've talked to your doctor about beginning early cancer screenings for your own colon. In other words, I, my friends, have entered the inner sanctum. Or is it rectum? The inner rectum sanctum.

Common wisdom dictates that you should have your first colonoscopy when you're ten years younger than your family member was when first diagnosed. My mom was first diagnosed when she was 55 ... which would mean my screenings should begin at 45. However, my doctor and I decided that, given that my mom was diagnosed somewhat later than ideal (are these things ever ideal?), I should have my first colonoscopy at age 40. Til then, we agreed that I might have yearly, get this, "fecal occult blood" tests done.

Nothing, NOTHING about a fecal occult blood test sounds good, right? Why, for instance, do they have to use the word "occult"? The test is designed to see if there is any blood hidden in your feces. But using "occult" (which I know means something different in medical lingo than in, erm, regular lingo) makes it sound like they're testing to see if you have haunted poop. Like it might start floating about of its own accord. Or start glowing. Or start spinning around really fast, talking like the devil. Something like Slimer, from Ghostbusters. Only brown instead of green. (Mr. Hankey was too obvious a reference so I decided to go old school, and, also, am I grossing you out yet?)

The fecal occult blood test is a take home test--only instead of giving you a booklet and test questions and the easy opportunity to cheat, you're given three paper sheets, three flat wooden sticks, and three slides. The idea is that you lay the paper down in the toilet before you have a bowel movement, "movement" onto the paper, and then use the sticks to collect a sample, which you'll then "smear" on the slide. Three times over three days. They make it sound easy ... but I don't know. There seem to be missing steps. Like how do you collect a sample without getting it wet? And, perhaps more importantly, how do you maintain your dignity in the process? (Oh right!--you let the world know by BLOGGING ABOUT IT.)

Oh and I guess you could cheat on the fecal occult blood test ... but, really, you can pick at your friends, you can pick at your shit, but you can't pick at your friends' shit.

This blogpost notwithstanding, I hear I'm really sexy and you should totally date me.

Hiking, hiking, hiking

See Jane run

RUN JANE RUN!!!!!

If we are to trust this blurb, featured EVERYWHERE (though I got it on the apple movie trailer site), then the new film, Becoming Jane, is all hooey:

The story of the great, untold romance that inspired a young Jane Austen, played by Anne Hathaway. Willful and spirited, Jane is not ready to be tied down to anything but her writing. That is until she meets Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy), a charming rogue from London who spends more time drinking and socializing than on his law studies.

Blech. Ptui.

Carry on.

At least 3 BAs

My brother used to joke with me when we were little that the "B.A." in B.A. Baracus stood for "Big Ass." I've since learned that it stood for "Bad Attitude." Both will suffice.

To be fair, the British Airways representative I spoke with just now was much more useful and understanding than the one I spoke with a couple days ago. I requested to speak with a supervisor immediately, but she explained to me that a supervisor wouldn't do any good as "these matters are handled by our refund department." But then she asked me what the problem was. She informed me that she was sending an e-mail to refunds that said, "Due to cancellation of flight, passenger is entitled to full refund." She also recommended that I reply to the e-mail I had received yesterday and explain the same, which I did soon after I got off the phone. At the end of the call, when she said, "Thank you for choosing British Airways," she said it as if she wanted to convey to me, "I know that's the last thing you want to hear and I feel really stupid for saying it but it's required and so I'm sorry."

I'd like to say that all I really want is for British Airways to practice good customer relations. And it does help ... it does make a difference when the reps speak to me as if I do have a legitimate ax to grind. Yet, it really bothers me to know that if it weren't for the cancelled flight, their standard policy (which also happens to be their be-all-end-all policy) would have me scrambling to find a time between now and March to fly to England; such a "vacation" would cause me to incur even more fees for rebooking and would have me paying the exorbitant cost of a ticket bought non-electronically. And they still might ask me to do such scrambling and rebooking and paying. I thought the customer was always right ... but instead I appear to be some mediocre circus clown all watch me roll watch me flip pay attention to MEEEEE honk honk.

I looked up British Airways on the Better Business Bureau website and there were a number of complaints made against them. The website also showed the BBB helped to resolve over half of these cases--and so if I fail, I will enlist their help. I'm also considering contacting my credit card company and filing a claim with them ... but, yeah, for now I'll play the waiting game.

I'm sick of whining about this really erggg stuff. So speaking B.A. Baracus, did I ever tell you about how my mom saw Mr. T when we were on the freeway this one time when I was ... 12 maybe? She was driving and I was sitting there and then she said, "Did you see that?! That was Mr. T! In that red car!" And she tried speeding up so I could see, but Mr. T was long gone. But she said he had the chains and the mohawk and everything.

I totally pity the fool.

British airways SUCKKKKKKKKKKSSSSSSS

OH MY GOD. Oh my god. I'm, wow. I just received an e-mail informing me that I have TWO options. The first option is that I can receive the amount of TAX I paid on the ticket. The second option is that I can have a credit for the amount of the ticket to be spent on the ORIGINAL DATE OF ISSUANCE (which was back in, like, March). I plan on calling either tomorrow morning (if their office is open) or Monday and DEMANDING to speak to a supervisor. WTF. The flight was FUCKING cancelled.

Anyway. I wanted to write something else tonight. About parents.

Yesterday, I was at Group Health waiting to pick up a prescription and a father and daughter pair walked into the waiting area. The daughter became immediately annoyed with the father for telling her that rather than straining her neck by turning around to read the most recently called number, she could just look straight ahead of her at another light-up sign. She snapped at him, saying, "Maybe I want to turn around. Maybe it's easier for me." She kept snapping at him for various reasons and then said, "Well, I feel like standing up." She stood up and walked to the other side of the waiting area. After several minutes, the father got up and found a chair that was closer to where she was standing.

Why do we get so easily annoyed? Why do we get so easily frustrated? Why are we so impatient? Why is it so hard for us to understand that our parents have thoughts of their own and lives of their own and wants and desires and feelings? Why do WE need understanding so bad? And why do they have to sacrifice their understanding for ours? It's really not fair. And it's only fair, it's only fair, that we let them live their lives too ... at least once we're secure with our own lives. And treat them with respect. And understand that they have needs of their own. And problems of their own. And passions that have nothing to do with us. That don't revolve around us. How can we deny that? Or make them feel guilty for being, for once in thirty-some-odd years, selfish.

I know that not all parent-children relations are like what I've suggested here. Clearly, what I'm going on about has everything to do with my own experience. The pair I observed at Group Health--who knows what their story was. My story? I had a conversation with my dad earlier today about what he wants his future to hold that broke my heart--but only because I never had any clue. No clue at all. And ... I know he doesn't need me or probably even want me to think so ... but I think it's pretty amazing.

British Airways, the saga continues

Well, I feel silly calling it a saga as there is nothing heroic or adventurous about it. Just me trying to get my money back ... though there's something to be said for the why behind it all. Anyway ...

When I called British Airways on July 3rd, I was told that my refund would take 7-10 days to be processed. To be processed. Keep that in mind. Today, I called my credit card company to see whether or not the refund showed up. Nope. So I called British Airways and spoke to someone who hailed from planet DUH.

Me: ... so I wanted to check the status of the refund.
Duh-Lady: Refunds take 7-10 days.
Me: I made the request on July 3rd. Can you please check the status?
Duh: Ma'am, the refund sometimes takes one to two billing cycles to show up on your statement.
Me: I just spoke with my credit card company and they have no record of the refund.
Duh: Well, ma'am, it takes 7-10 days to process refunds.
Me: My initial phone call was on July 3rd.
Duh: ...
Duh: Well, I can check your booking record if you'd like.
Me: Yes, please. [OH MY GOD]
Duh: ...
Duh: ...
Duh: ...
Duh: Ma'am, kjahfisenfvuiwb [indiscernible] only shows that the refund was requested on July 3rd.
Me: Wait, so does that mean it hasn't been processed? When will it be processed?
Duh: Ma'am I don't have that information. Refunds are handled by the refunds department. But they usually take 7-10 BUSINESS days, ma'am, and today is the 10th day.
Me: What, so it's going to be processed within the next couple hours?!!
Duh: Well, Ma'am, it might be a couple more days. Maybe on Monday. There were many cancelled flights and so they have a lot of refunds to work through and sometimes these things can take up to 8 weeks to show up on your statement.
Me: So I'll call back on Monday and by then it should have been processed??
Duh: Well, ma'am, you can try calling back on Monday, but they're really busy. And it won't show up on your credit card statement til after, sometimes, two billing cycles.
Me: ...
Me: Does the refund department have a direct line?
Duh: No Ma'am.
Me: So I need to call this number again?
Duh: Yes ma'am.
Me: Okay, I'll call back on Monday.
Duh: Thank you Ma'am. And thank you for choosing British Airways.

I didn't have a calendar in front of me, but I've since located one and have found that today is, in fact, the eleventh day. And I was generous and didn't count the 3rd or July 4th. And I do realize that I'm not the only who was on this cancelled flight and they must have a lot to deal with, but I doubt that the majority of people asked for a full refund (I imagine most travelers rebooked their flights). And it worries me a little bit that the record said, "Refund requested,"--as if my refund can be denied. Why couldn't it have said, "Refund approved," or "Refund forthcoming," or, simply, "REFUND"? And how long can it possibly take for the refund to be processed?! Everything is computerized. They should be able just to punch a few numbers and, ta-da, money. Chances are that everything will be fine--but it was just aggravating ... and I don't like being called ma'am. And this woman was a numb-nut.

My mom has been doing okay. Her nausea has gotten a bit worse--and my aunt tells her that she misses me. My aunt also told her not to make me feel guilty for leaving ... that that wouldn't be fair to me. I'm grateful for that, but it does mean that she'll be guarded about what she tells me. So we've returned to this place where I have to stitch together the fragments of what my mom tells me, my aunt tells me, and my dad tells me in order to make sense of how she's feeling. Hopefully, I'll come up with something close to the mark.

Tomorrow

Seaaaaatttttllllllle

With a twist

Today for lunch, we packed up a picnic and took my mom to the park (first post-hospital outing!!!) and we started remembering all the times we would go to my dad's work picnics in Milwaukee. My mom was telling us about how she would always win the three-legged race. We talked about how nice those parks in Milwaukee were. I have this very distinct memory of running up to a group of people watching someone walk across this river--right before a waterfall--in one of the parks. I remember grabbing hold of the hand next to me, thinking it was my dad's, and asking, "Is he going to make it?" And then I looked up, waiting for my dad to respond, only he didn't respond because he wasn't my dad, but a bad imposter. And then I looked at the person walking across the river and I realized THAT was my dad.

My mom is off chemo this week (two weeks on, one week off). Her oncologist gave her a shot of Procrit on Thursday because her hemoglobin was low ... and, right now, she's feeling some side effects from that. Procrit, in the process of increasing red blood cell production, makes your bones hurt. But her energy continues to build. And she, well, went to the park. And her appetite is good.

Yesterday, my aunt half-joked with me about when I'm going to write a book about all of this and I said, "When none of you would sue me." And she suggested (jokingly), "Well, you can write it when we're all dead." This family of mine has a really twisted sense of humor. And I love it.

If a tree falls in the forest?

Today I read Gene Luen Yang's graphic novel, American Born Chinese. Beautiful. Touching. Read it.

I think I'm ready to go back home (knock on wood). My mom remains relatively stable (knock vigorously on wood) with just a few side effects from the Xeloda now and again (knock the crap out of wood). And I think I need to go somewhere, um, else for a bit. We had a power outage this afternoon and the conversation we had about which phone to use, which one would work and which one wouldn't, took too, too, too long--only to return to the place where we started. The same thing happened with the conversation about what that vegetable was in the szechuan shrimp. Things must be explained again, and again, and again in this house--with much patience and respect for why things must be explained again, and again, and agan. I'm fine with that, but I'm beginning to miss, more and more, the kinds of conversations and even solitude I'm accustomed to. I'm living with three people whom I love dearly, but who all have different health and aging issues.

Also, I'm so afraid of breathing a sigh of relief (though I did already obliterate the wood ...)--but, can we all just say ... I have no idea what, but something in the territory of amazing about my mom? I'm wary of saying anything that would suggest that she's doing something special here because so many people have cancer and there's NO reason to suggest that they're not as amazing or more amazing than her. Their stories are different. I guess I'm just ... yeah ... I thought, well, I thought what I no longer want to put into words because then I would have to resurrect the wood again in order to knock on it.

Dammit. I'm not even a very superstitious person.

Something like a summary

I've been trying to work this out in my head. On May 25th, my mom went to the hospital and was diagnosed with ... liver failure? About a week after that (June 1st), when she was released from the hospital, the oncologist on duty told us she had three to six weeks to live ... depending; maybe months if she went back on chemo. On June 7th, she went back to the hospital for what turned out to be mild congestive heart failure. On June 13th, she was released from the hospital. On June 16th, she went back into the hospital with pneumonia. She was released on June 19th. She went back on a half-dose of chemo on June 27th. It's been about 4 1/2 weeks since the oncologist gave us the 3-6 week prognosis. And she seems to be doing really well (considering the last month) right now. Helping her to do well, of course, is a pharmacy of daily medications.

This morning, I took her to see her pulmonologist. He thinks that things are heading in the right direction. Everything is couched, though, in an "I think" or an "As far as I can tell." I can't blame him, though--these things are iffy (of course, when she wasn't doing well, that language was UNACCEPTABLE). But he's encouraging my mom to start walking more. Go outside--see if you can walk half a block from the house and back. Just don't push it. Apparently, to the heart, going up one flight of steps is the equivalent of walking a quarter mile on flat land.

I'm trying not to push it, too. Push myself, that is, to feel normal ... whatever that is. I went to Trader Joe's just now and stopped in at a clothing store to try on a t-shirt and when I looked in the mirror, I noticed that my hair was a mess and I looked tired and there were spots all over my shirt. I'm trying to laugh it off. I mean, it IS a little funny ...

Thank you everyone for all your kind thoughts and angels sent in our direction. And, also, for making me laugh and for continuing to share your lives with me so I feel like I'm still on the planet earth (such as it is--and why is Bush still president and oh my god with Libby and poor Al Gore's son who looks a little like Bill Clinton) and for picking up where I've, um, thrown down? You guys make me happy ... and, apparently, mushy.

Also, The Departed was REALLY good.

Tortoise

The last few days have been slow. I feel slow. My thoughts are slow--and I have all this time to sit here and so I watch my thoughts as I have them and I assess them and decide that I should feel guilty for that one and proud of this one and ashamed of that one and, well, let's have this one to make up for that one. Wishing things to happen quickly?--well, no, you don't want that, either.

She makes the most of this time passing slowly in ways that seem odd sometimes. She sings her moans of pain now, for instance. Any discomfort she has--she'll turn it into a tune. I look at her strangely and she tells me, "Sometimes you need to make fun of things. You need to laugh to make it lighter." And I say, "That's true," and I force a smile. I honestly think that the laugh would come quickly and naturally if I didn't feel so slow--if time wasn't passing at a snail's pace. But it should, right? Happen slowly. Slow is good, right? Like turtles--are good.

Compared to the last month, she's doing well. Her right leg continues to bother her. Walking is difficult and painful. But she's better than she's been in a long time. And I'm not doubtful (which I'm doubtful of). It's strange to think of the last month ... the last just-over-a-month. And it's embarrassing ... to see yourself grow tired. And it's embarrassing that you're so tired and she's still working so hard to feel better.

We should, starting now, pronounce "tortoise" french-style: TORT-WAAAHHZZ. And more than one tortoise should be called the "tortoisie" (TORT-WAHZ-EE). And the ones that do all the work should be called the "pro-le-turtle-at."

Two visions of teeniness

Yesterday, my aunt and I picked my mom's donut-peach tree. Most of the peaches were just on the verge of ripe (we put these in the fridge), but there were about twenty of them that were JUST past perfect. We peeled them and sliced them and froze them. This afternoon, I defrosted one of the packages and made a peach cobbler, which we all ate after dinner with ice cream and Mmmmmmmmms.

I took my mom to her oncologist today for her weekly check-up. She's doing better (in spite of a bad morning and, yeah) ... so much so that she took her Xeloda this evening. She's still a bit loopy from the Hydromorphone from yesterday--but the pain hasn't reared its mangled head yet. I joked to her that maybe the Oxycontin-morphine needed the Hydromorphone-morphine to remind it of what its job is. And then I had this vision of what it would be like if my mom's body were the subject of a remake of Fantastic Voyage--and what if I were in charge of maneuvering the shrunken submarine?

I'm having these thoughts about what my next move might be--go back to Seattle or stay here longer or something in between. It's hard for me right now because I don't want to DECIDE anything--and, plus, I can't decide anything without feeling more secure about my mom's condition, which, good luck with that. But I do have wondering ants in my pants.

Which reminds me that there were also lots of ants on the peach tree. They crawled up my arms and were tiny and hungry and what if my job were to climb across the branches of a peach tree all day? I know I would do my best not to bother someone by being all annoying by wondering in their pants ...

Explosions in the sky

My nani and I had half an hour to kill this evening and we spent it talking (in Hindi) about different game show genres. Some require intelligence while others require luck. Still others demand common sense. My nani believes that The Price is Right falls in the latter category. She explained (translation mine), "What kind of a dumbass are you if you lose on The Price is Right?"

Today was a rough day for my mom. She woke up in pain--or discomfort--or something that was bothering her all over her abdomen and up through her lungs that she couldn't quite describe. I gave her one tablet of the backup pain meds that we have on hand and that put her out of commission for the bulk of the day.

"Out of commission" is a dumb way of putting it. She spent the entire day in this hazy state of sleep and dream. Dream and reality wove together in her mind. She would be watching TV in her dream and then she would wake up, raising up her hand and pressing down--a gesture to turn off the TV. Or my aunt and I were having a conversation with her (she had been awake ...) about my cousin's highschool marching band, and she would say something about a rickshaw. It frustrates her. I can't tell if it makes her more comfortable or not ... when I ask her to tell me about the dreams she wakes ... into?

She decided to stop taking Xeloda (the oral chemo she's been taking for the last week) as that is likely what is causing this most recent pain. The feeling is similar to what she was experiencing when she went to the hospital on May 26th. And it's troubling that it's a similar pain given that she's on regular pain meds now. How bad must the pain be?

And as I didn't go out to see any fireworks tonight, I decided to make up for it by listening to some early Explosions in the Sky. Wish you were here.

Crab

Ugh ... first I feel like I need to apologize for the crappy/crabby post from last night. I was tempted to delete it a few times ... but then I kept talking myself out of it. Yesterday was one of those days when all of us were on edge--nostalgic, bitter, annoyed (with each other and with ourselves). I think a lot of you have heard me talk about the unwarranted remarks my mom would make about my weight through the years. My mom isn't the perfect mother ... but who is ... or what does that even mean? I've been having these moments when I'll remember the difficult times that I've had with her ... but I'm glad for that. They keep that whole compulsion to idealize the cancer victim in check. My mom, after all, is still my mom. What's nice is that at the end of the day (or, occasionally, the next morning) we know exactly the state of our devotion to each other ... and I know she's an incredible person.

But things are relatively stable here. That is, not too much to say. Some emotional setbacks have been manifesting themselves in more panic attacks. Tonight got a little on the bad side ... and a part of me wonders if that pressure in her chest is not so much panic as it is the elephant in her body. Of course, we're realizing how incredibly interconnected all of it is.

And some weird but good news. I got an e-mail this morning from British Airways telling me that my flight (I was supposed to leave for London earlier this evening) had been cancelled (a whole wing at Heathrow Airport had been shut down because of the terror alert). I called the airline just to make sure that, in the process of cancelling the record of the flight, they wouldn't also cancel my request for reimbursment (I faxed the letter over the weekend). Well, the very friendly gentleman on the phone told me, "Not a problem. Since the flight has been cancelled, I'll just go ahead and give you the full reimbursement. No fee." While I was on hold, I thought of ways I could flirt with him and then propose. Gratitude is a funny thing.

How is everyone?

Ode on a SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP

It's past midnight. This bird will tweet, whistle, screech, chirrup til 2 am, I predict. At least if last night is any indication. I'm at my aunt's house for one more night. And this bird outside the window demands my full attention. Go to SLEEEEEEP.

Today my mom told me not to eat too much dessert. Do I take that as:

A. a sign that she's feeling better
B. her attempt to regain control now that her house is returning back to normal with the departure of the grandkids
C. an indication that I've gained weight
D. a compliment

My aunt says that my mom is acting "normal"--which is a good thing. Curious.

And, seriously, I don't want to throw a boot out the window at this bird outside, but what's the deal??

Oh my god. SHUT. UP.

Oh and Blood Diamond is a horrible movie.

Briefly ...

I had this thought on the airplane (because the person sitting behind me had the biggest feet I've ever seen and my inner voice exclaimed, "BIG FEET!") that Big Foot is a really strange name for Big Foot. His feet can't be that big, right? Or, if they are, surely the evidence of that is coming from tracks left in the mud more than from an eyewitness report ... like someone who actually befriended him and had trouble finding shoes big enough to fit him. And so then why isn't he called Big Footprint?

My mom was doing okay today. I think she's ready to have the house quiet again, though. Kids are great, but they do bounce around a lot. And then they get upset when you tell them to stop bouncing around so much. And then they bounce around and do so while crying.

She's thin, though. Her arms have gotten really thin during the six days I've been gone. She seems to be doing okay on the treatment right now ... but all of the same problems are still there--some abdomen discomfort and pain; fever, off and on; wheezing. But she seemed, you know, okay. More tomorrow.