Yesterday my grandpa was diagnosed with an extremely rare, and extremely advanced, form of stomach cancer. The epitome of the strongest, healthiest, and outdoorsiest 75 year old man on this planet, I expected to find him in somewhat diminished spirits when my sister and I headed out to Colbert for a little meeting regarding his diagnosis and potential treatment options. I think because I was initially devastated, I expected him to be. At one point I even imagined him reveling in ultimate despair, sobbing to himself on the floor. Ridiculous me. My initial and highly presumed assessment of his mental and emotional faculties became disproved almost instantly.
I presumed a somber mood would overcome the visit, and found my assumption grossly, and thankfully, incorrect.
At one point during the visit my sister and I are having a serious cancer conversation with a very optimistic grandpa Ladish when we notice him switch conversation topics suddenly and unconsciously, and rather than discussing the complexities of stomach cancer, we now find ourselves watching my grandma’s early 90′s Denise Austen exercise video, listening to my grandpa as he explains how great this video is and how grandma can do all the exercises really well. And he’s just plain excited about it, and my grandma is being adorable and kinda bopping to the video beat and moving her arms a bit, like she wants to work out but she just can’t right now because she’s chatting with her grand-daughters, and besides she’s not dressed properly. And all the while Theresa and I are doing our best not to collapse from not breathing because we are laughing so hard.
That’s why I adore my family. Because when someone you love gets cancer you think the next time you see them you might cry, or even be silent for awhile, so as to truly absorb the gravity of the situation, because isn’t that what families do when brusque reality comes knocking, bringing the unpleasant reminder of life’s inconstancy? Not my family. Don’t get me wrong. We cry, we hug, we sit silently (Sometimes. Ok, rarely). But most of the time we laugh. We laugh because life is serious enough without everyone walking around focusing on its solemnity, and because sometimes there isn’t anything else to be done. We laugh because most of us are pretty darn funny, thank you very much. But mostly we laugh because no matter the austerity of a particular situation, we know we have far more for which to be thankful than we do for which to be embittered.
So, cancer smancer.
If my grandpa decides to fight this then I remain confident that it will be the cancer that is high-tailing it out of his body, and not my grandpa high-tailing it out of this world. But no matter the outcome of the pending tests, decisions and surgeries, my family will remain intact. And my grandpa? He will remain amazing, and hilarious.
Stories I said I had. Tangential stories and life-changing ones.
Until today I haven’t known where, exactly, to begin. And so quiet this space has mostly been because some beginnings are tricky. Sometimes it’s quite impossible to denote where something ended and something else entirely began.
I’m not going to be able to tell you everything, but then the best stories never really do, do they?
(That’s not a trick question. I promise they don’t.)
(Unless the story was penned by Henry James, in → Read more...
This week I’ve been finding pieces of writing long lost and forgotten. Unearthing words belonging to me, and words penned by some of my favorite of all literary voices, collected and saved and scrawled excitedly on pages littered with foggy memories of past lives, obscured now in light of all that was and is and is to come.
Of the words not belonging to me, Lucille Clifton’s were the ones I found most often, recounted in notebook after notebook, or inked → Read more...
They say water changes stone, carving it over time to angles and dimensions in harmony with water’s need to reach the sea; but sometimes, stones change the watercourse instead.
-The lovely and eclectic Shari
I’m collecting my favorite corners, like the one with the stunning oak tree on display for an entire neighborhood to see, its limbs shading a bustling crosswalk shooting confidence into pedestrians like electric currents of white light, fresh graffiti on a nearby curb: an infinity symbol, black and simple.
I’m collecting stories about the apartment window filled with small elephant figurines along one of my favorite walking routes. So many trunks standing side-by-side and none of them alive.
I’m collecting the surprisingly → Read more...