I just heard from my Grammy. The message caught me by surprise; I thought she was going back into the hospital or worse. But no, the news is about my father. He's in the hospital with a lymphoma. They think he has colon cancer.
My grandfather on the same side, the second, died at age 44 of a heart attack. My dad (the third)'s always been very healthy, aside from his occasional smoking habit. Now he's 46 and starting chemo to stay alive. Follow the pattern and you can perhaps see that the grin on my face when I say I won't live to be sixty is a vain attempt at irony.
I lean forward as I type, a mixture between bad posture and bad eyes; both of which have aggravated each other for a dozen years; and I can't help but feel like I'm falling forward.
My grammy's much better. And today they found out that my Grandma's tumor shrank. Life goes on.
Before you ready your condolences about my father, realize that that's not the intent, or aim, of this entry. I am not concerned with the life of my father. The two words that lie foremost in my mind are 'genetic predisposition'.
Every day I say my good-byes.