kvetching up

Say it loud, say it clear You can listen as well as you hear It's too late when we die To admit we don't see eye to eye -from In The Living Years by Paul Carrack  Yesterday was actually quite nice, if I omit discovering that we were listening to the pinché motherfucker's playlist in Jenny's car.  It was obvious. Jenny isn't musically adventurous. Deep cuts from Aretha aren't something you happen upon.  It was aural assault, but I am a big boy, said nothing, and kept on keeping on. Jenny and I had breakfast with my sister Jane and her husband at Bluewater Bistro on Lake Washington.  It was pleasingly low key and nice. Jane has stepped up like no one else to show unmitigated love to Jenny.  She asks for nothing in return, and is always wanting and willing to help her, help the kids, and help me. She arranged the brunch.  She made it happen.   I spent the rest of the day working in the yard, and Jenny is feeling well enough that she cleaned out the ...

Sorrow -- Van Gogh 1882 I want to fix her. I want to find a cure, a way to stop the suffering.  The agony is real. Ceaseless. The fear corporeal. Tonight, I started receiving harrowingly sad texts as I sat in Abby's car at YTN.  My heart broke into a million pieces again and again with each message.  I found her at home in the bathtub for the third time today, abdominal cramps from the cancer leaving her ashen and bereft. It took 3 visits the the bathroom to coax her from the now tepid water, which she had been in for over an hour.  I pulled the plug, and got her up, wrapped her towel around her. Dried her off.  The sorrow in her eyes leaving knife wounds wherever they came to rest on me. Mostly, she stared vacantly into space, not resolute, not resigned, not stoic.  Lost.  Even asking to no one in particular, "Is this what it was all for?"  "Can this really be it?" "Why?"  I left her alone in our cramped bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, aft...