So I went to my first “new moms” group meeting last week. It took me nearly six months to finally do it. I’d been reluctant to even get together with other moms who aren’t familiar with my situation, and even some who are. We go to our monthly adoption support meetings which include newly formed families (as well as birth family members and prospective parents). But I haven’t been able to bring myself to join a whole group of women and their newborns with all the talk of babies, birth and breastfeeding, etc. I get enough of that from my friends and family, thank you very much. Why opt for more?

I know it’s good for both of us to get out of the house more often and to socialize Baby J with babies around her age. I figured it might be good to try to talk with other moms about various issues that arise too — like, for example, babies who rarely nap, introducing solids, that sort of thing. A new group was forming and it was literally right across the street from my house. So I figured what the hell, I can always leave, right? So I took a few deep breaths, packed up the stroller, braced myself, and went along.

There were only three other moms, two with tiny newborns in slings and one with a toddler too old for the group. I should say that I live in an area heavy on the neo-hippie attachment parenting, big on co-sleeping, baby wearing, home births, extended nursing, stay at home parenting, etc. I’ve done some of those things myself. But here I was with my formula-fed baby in a stroller. I was way more out of shape than these fabulously fit glowing women who you’d never know had just given birth two months ago were it not for the squishy newborns attached to their nipples.

Not even 10 minutes had passed before the boobs came out and the two new moms were nursing and comparing birth stories. I sat there somewhat awkwardly, even though I think breastfeeding is the most natural thing, when you can do it. There they were, talking about their planned home births (both ended up in the hospital), their love of nursing (both babies took to it so well), and how no one can satisfy their babies without the boob (not even their husbands).

Soon enough, they turned to me and one of them said, “So tell us about your birth experience.”

Hmm.

“Well actually,” I said, “we adopted her at birth.”

A moment of quiet, and a single “oh…”

I went on, “She was born at home, at her birth mom’s home, and we were lucky enough to be there.”

Surprise. “Really?” Their ears perked up at the mention of the home birth since neither of theirs worked out. They seemed surprised that we were there too.

“Yes,” I said, “I even got to catch her. Not many women can say that!” Agreed.

They asked more about how we found K and about the openness aspect. I explained how the ongoing contact has been beneficial for everyone, how our family has extended to include hers.

Strike one for a little open adoption education.

And hey, at least I’d been to a home birth, even if it wasn’t my own. Right?

Eventually the conversation turned from general topics such as sleeping to more complicated issues (for me) such as family building. Just as with breastfeeding and so many other topics, I was left cold. How close together, how far apart, how you can ovulate while nursing, what the next birth plan will look like, how the siblings will get along, etc.

Just so much taken for granted. When they are ready it will happen. As if it’s a sure thing.

As if it’s even an option.

Then the discussion about who looks like who, which features came from where. All I can say is “she looks like her birth mom.”

I honestly don’t know whether I’ll go back. I actually liked one of the women, but I just feel like no one “gets” me. Not just with this small group, but all of our parenting friends and family. They keep on having babies, growing their families to just the right size however and whenever they want. Even now that I’m a mom, it’s hard not only to join those conversations but even to listen to them.

At our adoption support group, many of the families have experienced infertility and loss. All of them are in very open adoptions. It’s just SO much easier. I don’t have to explain a thing. It’s just understood. There’s a comfort in knowing that even if we have nothing else in common, we share the beautiful way in which we have built our families. We share common views about adoption at least. We encounter similar challenges and issues. I don’t feel on guard, defensive, insecure, inadequate.

It’s not that I feel like an inadequate mother — although I’m sure there will be moments when I will — I’ve had plenty of time to think about what kind of mother I want to be, and not. I know what I can be, and what I can’t be to Baby J.

It’s just that these little gatherings are not really affirming for me. I want to get something from them, but it seems that I always need to explain something. Sure I can talk about sleepless nights and exciting new developmental milestones. I can marvel at the incredibly sweet nature of my child. I can feel happy watching her with other children. I can feel joy in being her mama.

But I still don’t fit in.

Thank you all again for your support these past few weeks. I posted an update to my last post (at the end), but I just haven’t had the time, energy or chance to write much lately.

I’ve talked to my mom every day for the past week. The morning after my last post, she finally returned my call. She sounded weak, tired. My stepdad told my aunt that she is feeling depressed and angry. Her doctors convinced her to try one last procedure in an effort to alleviate some of her symptoms. It is risky but she has no other real options aside from doing nothing. If they decide she is strong enough, on Monday morning she will undergo one last procedure to attempt to cut off the blood flow to and from the main tumor. It won’t fix her and it could very well kill her, but the thought of feeling any better at all was appealing enough to try.

I just keep thinking that she could really go any day, at any point in time. Her heart could give out in an instant. Her liver could fail overnight. Just like that. Every time the phone rings, I hold my breath. When it doesn’t ring, I think that she must be too exhausted to talk. When the phone rang just after 6am last week — I happened to be up already with the baby, because that’s how she rolls — M and I both thought the same thing. But it was just my stepdad with the daily update. He didn’t think about the time difference (8am in the Lonestar state).

In the midst of my mom’s own emotional and physical turmoil, she actually asked me how I was doing. Leave it to her to try to get some last mothering in. I was touched that she was concerned about my well being, me being a new mom and her baby. I told her I was doing okay, just worried about her. She’s worried too. I assured her that I take some comfort in knowing she is in good hands and at the best facility, that if anyone can help her they can. She agreed, for what that’s worth.

We say I love you a lot these days.

I told her we wanted to come and visit. I know she wants to see us and especially Baby J. After a few days, she finally asked when we could visit once she is released and goes home — assuming this actually happens. We’re planning a visit for early-mid December and hoping that won’t be too late. So it looks like Baby J will be taking her first flight soon.

Now I have to decide about the damn flu shot and H1N1 vaccine for the baby. I’m not a fan of flu shots and especially not for a barely even six month old baby…

There is so much more I want to say, but I’ll  just leave at that for now.

Thank you so much for your outpouring of support. Every one of your kind words and thoughts reached their way through the box and warmed my ailing heart. Seriously, many thanks for all the virtual love. I needed that.

I still have not spoken with her.

We got the news about my mom on Monday, while she was still under anesthesia from opening her up before they determined that she was inoperable. Since then, she’s been sedated by painkillers for her incision, and all communication has funneled through her husband, my stepfather of 25 years.

As I explained before, my mom hasn’t wanted anyone else there during her procedures. She just wanted to get through them and come out the other side. She was encouraged by her team of doctors to believe that if she could pull through this surgery, she could have quite a decent quality of life after a difficult recovery. She just wanted to get through it and enjoy what was left.

Now she sits in her hospital room at a world class facility wondering if there’s anything at all this team of experts can do for her. Or whether she will simply wither away and die an uncomfortable death while slowly losing her dignity. And find a way to come to peace, to heal her heart, if possible.

And she’s not ready to talk about it.

It has been really hard knowing how difficult this must be for her. To have lost hope. Yet she doesn’t have the energy, the will, or the desire to speak with her loved ones with what she is facing.

Since she was diagnosed just weeks before Baby J was born, I’ve spoken with my mom about every other day, sometimes every day. Although miles separated us, we were as close as we could be. She was reluctant at first to be candid about her illness with us, afraid that she would somehow damper the excitement of anticipating the birth of our maybe baby. But we made it clear that we wanted to know everything. I reminded her how upset we all were when my grandmother hid her disease from us, and she agreed. We said we would do whatever we could to support her.

After Baby J was born, every conversation began and ended with the latest things the baby was doing. The most wonderful diversion. My mom was crushed when she couldn’t meet her sooner and had to wait until after another round of tests. Once she was diagnosed with a course of treatment, we offered to travel to be with her. But with a new baby, travel would be a challenge and she knew that. Our offers to visit were declined. But so too were everyone else’s. It wasn’t just me. Family and friends all offered to be with her, to surround and support her.

She wanted to face this alone, with her husband and no one else by her side.

This is a hard thing to explain about my mother. It’s not simple stoicism. It’s partly her need to feel in control (and she was not). It’s partly her need to not appear weak and vulnerable, to not be afraid (but she was). It’s partly her need to feel like a hostess and entertain her guests (but she could not). I think it’s partly that she can not bear to look her children in the eyes and know that she is the one who now needs care. It’s her need to not be mother or sister or friend, but to be just a patient. Even her husband said he would rather wait alone than have others fussing around him.

I’ve had to respect their decision.

But still.

It adds a whole other dimension to my grieving process.

Ever since May, when I first heard the word “cancer” from her, I have been more or less holding my own feelings at bay too. Trying to protect my heart, I suppose. Distracting myself with the hope of a new baby and K’s needs. That day, I was driving home with my headset on; I had been waiting for the call. She was still very hopeful, though a long road was ahead. My first reaction when I hung up was “fuck.” I actually screamed it. The tears came and flowed. I had been there before. I knew where this road leads. Since then the bad news has just kept on coming.

Hope has been had and lost.

It’s one thing to hear the words. It’s another thing to speak them aloud (or write them down). It’s another thing altogether to understand and accept in your heart their irrefutable truth.

Grief has the capacity to pull people together. If you allow it.

It’s times like this that I sort of wish I had a larger family, a closer family, one that is not separated by mere miles alone. Instead we connect by phone, by email, or not at all. Where once I was the glue, the mediator, the peacekeeper, I am no longer able to serve that role. While I will plan a visit as soon as she allows it, right now I can’t even go cook her a meal, or give her a hug.

We are all being kept at a distance.

I have to abide in my own way.

I am helpless.

~~~~

Update. After posting this Thursday night, I spoke with my mom Friday morning. She sounded tired and weak, but I was happy to hear her voice and to know that she wanted to reach out. Since then, I’ve spoken with her twice more and also connected with both of my brothers and other family members. My local family has been great; it’s just been hard to connect with the others who are 1000, 3000 and 5000 miles away.

It looks like there is one more procedure they hope to try in an effort to relieve some of her symptoms and make her more comfortable. This is not an attempt to cure the disease as it is incurable. It is a risky procedure that she consented to only after accepting that it is her only available option. The doctors won’t perform this procedure for another week, as they hope she might regain some strength from her last operation a week ago.

At this point, the best we can hope for is that she will be strong enough to withstand the procedure on Monday, that it goes well and offers some relief for some quality of life. We have to hope that her heart and liver don’t give out first. We have to hope that she makes it home, so we can plan a visit when and where she is more comfortable, as soon as possible.

It’s inoperable.

My mother is dying.

It may be a few months, or a few weeks. Or longer. I have no idea.

We had hoped with this surgery that she’d still have some years left in her. But it was not to be.

Just a few months ago she was a vibrant woman, enjoying life and love, her grandchildren, travel. She was only just showing signs of slowing down…

Now I fear she will have lost all hope.

There are no good options left. Maybe the doctors will be able to convince her that a certain treatment might enable some quality of life, in spite of the side effects. My guess is she will not buy it. She has seen too many people succumb to this awful disease and its toxic treatments.

She is tired and weak.

Yesterday, she had hope. Today I doubt there is any left.

She is my last surviving ancestor. My dad is long gone, nearly 24 years now. Died a week before his 50th birthday from kidney cancer. With him I also lost his parents, my grandparents. My mom’s mother, my grandmother, has been gone more than 11 years. Dead at 79 from breast cancer. Her husband died when I was just 5. Heart attack.

Now it looks like my mom won’t even live as long her mother. She is just 71 — last year, a very young 70; this year a very old 71.

Sometimes I think about how happy I am that I didn’t pass along my genes to Baby J.

I am depressed, and I am angry. Sometimes one more than the other.

I feel numb.

No one saw this coming.

Just this week, a few nights before my mom was scheduled for surgery, I was feeding Baby J in the middle of the night. It was quiet as I rocked her by the moonlight, alone with my thoughts. It was the first time I had allowed myself to really feel what was happening. I had a bad feeling about the surgery, that it wouldn’t go well. I realized in that moment that I would lose my mom far sooner than I ever expected. I started anticipating her death, life without her.

That’s what we do when we have warning, when we have done it before. When you know what it’s like to lose someone before they are even gone. Grieving is such a sorrowful business. Your body remembers how to do it. Your heart knows where it is headed. Already it is not the same person you once knew. You are already grieving the person you lost, even though they are not yet gone. You become angry at the randomness, the lack of control, the sheer devastation of it, the resignation to it. Your heart is heavy.

I will keep on losing her every day, until she really is gone.

Tonight I am ever grateful for my little girl, whose smile kept me grounded and sane amidst the worst news. And for M, who is as amazing as ever.

Tomorrow is another day. One step closer to losing her. One more day with her.

The most recent prompt by Heather at the Open Adoption Roundtable asks open adoption bloggers whether they agree with some common critiques about openness in adoption. The views cited share one thing in common, “a certain point-of-view: that direct contact during early childhood between birth families and children placed for adoption may not be the best idea” and that adoptees, not their parents, should be able to decide if and when to initiate contact on their own timetable.

As a new adoptive mother in a fully open adoption, I obviously disagree with this view for many of the reasons discussed by other roundtable participants. (Go read the critiques and their responses.) I’m not going to reply to each point specifically, but rather discuss generally why I think early direct contact is important. Of course there is no one right way; each adoption will be different.

Adoption is, or should be, about the child. With truly child-centered adoption, we must consider what is right and best for the child — not what is right or best for the adoptive parents, or even the birth parents. Absolutely the decision whether to place a child rests solely with the expectant parents. But I think that once the parent decides to place the child, that child has a right to know and to access their family of origin.

In some states, closed adoption is still the norm. I realize that some birth parents have an expectation of privacy that conflicts with openness. Although I can appreciate this concern, it is my opinion that the child has a fundamental right to know. While open adoption is not for everyone (and a fully open adoption even more so), I think the ultimate goal should be ensuring the child’s access to birth family. Contact should be worked out on a case by case basis appropriate to the circumstances. Because the child is not yet in a position to determine what is right for him/her, it’s the responsibility of the parents — all of them — to ensure that access remains open until the child is mature enough to decide for him/herself what level of contact may be appropriate.

Too often I think adoptive parents reject openness because of their own fears and insecurities. They agree to minimal contact out of obligation to the birth parents, rather than from a desire to share the exciting developments of the child, or a need to remain connected for the sake of the child. They may even be relieved when a birth parent doesn’t want a lot of contact. But they don’t realize how beneficial the contact can be for everyone. Sure it may (will) sometimes be difficult (for the parents and even the child). Yet many aspects of parenting are challenging. Adoptive parenting includes a whole other set of issues that we signed on for. We didn’t adopt our child from nowhere. She came from an existing family with a unique history and ongoing story, a genetic predisposition and physical traits that she inherited from her family of origin. As her parents, we have no right to deprive her of experiencing that connection. To the contrary, we have an obligation to embrace it.

Our adoption agency downplayed the potential for a fully open adoption, catering instead to prospective adoptive parents who were concerned about (read: fearful of) openness. Even their best social workers repeatedly assured prospective families that just having information about birth family is beneficial for the child. And while I can’t disagree — especially having known adoptees from closed adoptions who craved that information with a primal urgency — I really don’t think that is enough.

I don’t believe it is enough for our daughter to simply know about her birth family. I believe she has a right to have them in her life in whatever way she can. It’s our job to provide that access. We are not only the caretakers of her story until she is ready to carry it herself, but we are also the bridge to her birth family. We have to build that bridge — lay the foundation and maintain its integrity by establishing honest and open relationships, respecting her story and the people in it, providing information and doing our best to ensure access. We have to be that bridge, for now. Some day, she can decide for herself how and when she wishes to cross it.

To those who say that contact would be confusing for the child, I fail to see how spending time among family would be any more confusing than trying to understand later why your parents never made that option available, if it was possible. Moreover, kids are smarter than we give them credit for. They take things at face value. They deserve our honesty and our guidance to help them work through the complexities that come with being adopted.

Adoption is complicated; the relationships are complex and dynamic. As members of the triad I think we all have an obligation to our children first and foremost. As parents, you are always making decisions about what is best for your child — from what they eat to who they spend time with. Yet at some point those decisions become their own. It’s our job to help guide them to one day make good decisions for themselves. Until then, that responsibility lies with us.

~ Happy Halloween!~

… may you have more treats than tricks this year!

image courtesy of the Amazing M

So much to say, so little time… and not sure how much to share.

It’s been a busy week here and we are recovering from our weekend away. Another post will have to be forthcoming on that, as I am still processing. It was all good, really. It’s just that there is so much to ponder.

But now ’tis the season to think of spiders and witches and little goblins. And pumpkins.

This time last year, we were moving full steam ahead with our adoption outreach when I had a major setback one fall Sunday afternoon. We had gone to our local pumpkin patch for some harvest fun, yet it was anything but. The experience left me weepy and raw. I was depressed and feeling hopeless.

I was grieving the life we didn’t have, the life we would never have.

That day as I looked around at all the families and babies, I was feeling every loss so acutely that I could barely speak. The sight of all those kids in wheelbarrows and little wobbly legs learning to walk amidst the bright orange gourds waiting to be picked and carved was just too much.

On top of my grief, or perhaps underneath it all, I was doubting whether we would ever be “picked” or whether we’d lose ourselves in the wait.

What a difference a year makes, no?

Seriously, I feel like that should be the title of my blog this year.

A week ago we went back to our pumpkin patch with Baby J. We packed up the stroller and bundled up in layers and joined the masses who all had the same idea. We spent half an hour trying to get the perfect photo (never got it) before selecting the perfect pumpkin for each of us and checking out the petting zoo. There was way too much activity for the baby and she was rather overwhelmed by it all (ponies and hayrides and pumpkins, oh my!)

Yet what really stuck in my mind was the incredible contrast from last year.

Every day I am amazed by the path our lives have taken that has led us to this.

And I am filled with awe and gratitude.

We’ve had lots of activity this past week with Baby J’s birth family that has left us feeling really positive.

Last weekend, M and I took a drive to K’s hometown, where Baby J was born, and had a wonderful lunch. We visited with K’s mom, Baby J’s first grandmother. She simply adores this baby, her first grandchild. We are closer with her than anyone next to K and our time together is easy and comfortable. We genuinely enjoy her as a person, as mom to K, and as Baby J’s first (and closest in proximity) grandparent. We keep in touch by email and phone, and we all look forward to our monthly visits.

Afterwards, we headed to K’s dad’s home for the first time to see him and meet his wife. We had met K’s dad T the day Baby J was born, but he had been somewhat slow to warm to us until then. Since then, we have left the door open. Finally, he and his wife agreed it was time and invited us to their home for a visit with Baby J.

I wasn’t nervous exactly, since we had met T once before. But it certainly would be a different kind of visit than those we’re used to with K or her mom. Would we be judged, or scrutinized as parents? Maybe. But it feels so natural to be this little girl’s Mama that surprisingly I wasn’t worried about that. Of course I wondered whether Baby J would cry the whole time because she is teething. But I couldn’t worry about that either. Babies cry, they sometimes fuss. Such is life, right?

After some initially awkward introductions (we went for hugs when they went for shakes; we won), we had a really good visit. Like any relationship, those in open adoption get to know one another by bonding over something in common. We spent about two hours admiring our little girl, talking about her development, marveling at her strength, beauty and good nature. When they complimented us, I said we couldn’t claim credit for that. But they disagreed and said she is such a happy baby and that’s because of us.

We saw some pictures and heard stories about Baby J’s ancestors. We answered questions about ourselves, and we talked about our philosophy of openness. We explained why it is good for Baby J to have access and ongoing contact with her family of origin, on all sides, and how we think this benefits everyone. They thought it was great that we were “willing” to do that for her. They thanked us profusely for making the time to see them. And they hugged us goodbye.

On our way home, M and I were both relieved and I think a little proud that we were able to navigate this particular meeting so well. We both felt really good about our visit and the potential for our future relationship with Baby J’s Grandpa T and his wife.

Then when we got home, I opened an email from K’s mom that deeply moved both of us. We have spoken with her at length about how lucky we all are to have found each other. But this still got me. She told us how much she loves us and our little girl and how wonderful we all are. She thanked us for allowing her to really feel like Baby J’s grandmother and said that if things had been different she’d be feeling such grief right now. Our relationship is a celebration of how “right” this situation is, she believes, and the universe unfolded just as it should have.

Now I’m not cuing any unicorns or rainbows here. Of course adoption is complicated. And no, it is not perfect.

But truly, openness in action reaps such benefits. It opens hearts. It alleviates some measure of the pain of loss. It creates community. Yes, it can be hard. But there is so much to be gained, for everyone involved.

That night, we sent some pictures and a quick email to Grandpa T, thanking him for the visit. The next day, we got an unusually emotional email from him. He said how wonderful it was to spend time with us and our beautiful daughter. He admitted this had been a very emotional situation for them, but said they were so pleased with us as Baby J’s parents. They were thrilled to see how happy she is. He said they want to play an active, positive role in her life.

These messages were both so affirming to us as parents, to me as Baby J’s mother. It’s hard to convey the impact such positive interaction has on me as an adoptive mama, but it is profound. I am also seeing firsthand how beneficial ongoing contact is for these grandparents, who would otherwise be grieving the loss of that unique role in this child’s life. I know some day Baby J will further reap the benefits of openness too (she already has).

This week will culminate in baby’s first road trip on Friday to visit with K (our visit was rescheduled from three weeks ago because K was sick). K will hear all about our visits with her parents and we’ll show her pictures. And take some more.

We might even get to meet Baby J’s biological father.

In honor of National Adoption Month in November, Lori of Weebles Wobblog has launched an experiment over at the Open Adoption Examiner: a new adoption cross-triad book tour.

Beginning with the controversial landmark book The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier, the tour promises to highlight the adoptee voice, often absent or marginalized from adoption discourse. Written by an adoptive mother interested in the psyche of the adoptee, the book was the first to explore in depth the adoptee perspective when it was published in 1993.

Truth be told, The Primal Wound is not an easy read. Nevertheless, it should provide for some compelling discussion about adoption with all members of the triad represented. So sign up for the book tour and draft some questions for discussion by November 30.

Lori asks that participants “come with equal parts openness to understand other viewpoints and eagerness to share one’s own.” Be prepared to engage in some thoughtful discussion.

Book Tour Instructions:

- Sign up for the book tour by November 30 (earlier is better!)

- Read The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier (get it from your library or buy it)

- By November 30, draft 1-2 discussion questions and send them to Lori (bestlightlori at gmail dot com)

- By December 5, all participants will receive a list of questions.  Select 3 questions to answer.

- On December 12, post answers to your 3 questions on your blog OR in the comments of the Open Adoption Examiner page that day.  Note you don’t need a blog to participate!

- Tour day: On December 12, link to participant responses on the Open Adoption Examiner page. Then you can read, comment and discuss The Primal Wound. And remember, “the purpose here is to shed light rather than make heat.”

All perspectives are welcome, so join in and sign up!

Back in mid-August, I asked for some virtual wishes for my mom, who up until a few months ago appeared to be a healthy vibrant woman enjoying retirement with her soul mate.

That day she was undergoing surgery to remove two tumors at a world class facility in the Lonestar State. During the procedure to remove the smaller one from the primary site, the doctors discovered that she suffered from some unusual clotting factor that had gone undetected after two days of testing. In short, she started to bleed out and they had to get the hell out of there, or she would have died.

Thankfully, they were able to manage the hemorrhage and safely remove the tumor from the primary site. But they never got to the bigger tumor and the more complicated part of the procedure. Even under the best scenario, operating on the liver is a dicey proposition.

An extremely rare type of tumor apparently found its way to my mother’s liver some years ago, making itself at home, silently taking over critical space in her abdomen, spewing toxins into her bloodstream affecting her heart, and impeding her liver’s ability to function normally. Making her really sick in a matter of months.

My mother has never been one to show weakness or vulnerability, or fear for that matter. She has always been a bundle of energy, a strong force to be reckoned with. Truth be told, I’ve had a hard time keeping up with her on many occasions.

Now that energy has been sapped by the toxic mess in her liver. She is tired and sick, weak and scared. She is anxious. She feels way beyond her 71 years. She is thinking of her own mother, my nana, who died just 11 years ago at age 79. My mother doesn’t look or feel that old. And yet suddenly she is facing her mortality.

This week my mom traveled back to the Lonestar State to the best facility in the world for this type of cancer. They have a team of specialists studying her case. (With her rare tumor and clotting factor, she may end up in a medical review journal.) She met again with her top surgeon. After two days of diagnostics, they determined they cannot operate because she is in such bad shape that her liver would probably fail during the procedure.

This morning they will meet again to re-evaluate whether there is any scenario that could result in a positive outcome. It certainly does not look good right now.

I have been down this road before, and it’s hard. I lost my dad and my nana to cancer, among others. I know my mom is getting the best care possible. I encourage her to express her frustration, sadness, and rage, to breathe through her anxiety, to ask questions and question the answers. Yet aside from talking with her often and simply abiding with her, there is nothing more I can do.

There’s a certain helplessness in watching your loved ones suffer.

Yet I feel a strange sense of detachment from the whole awful situation. People ask me how I am, and what am I supposed to say? It fucking sucks, that’s how I am. Yet I’ve allowed some kind of buffer to exist between my heart and the sad reality of losing my last parent. As if not thinking too hard about it will somehow protect me when the bad news just keeps on coming.

Updated: Cancer still sucks. But the news this morning is that they will put her on a two week protocol of drugs and try surgery again in early-mid November. So maybe there still is some hope to be had.