I seldom fear cancer will come back. I’ve read the stats, and I know that because I found my tumor early, my chances of another bout with it are very slim. And aside from the fact that I tend to write about cancerish things a lot, it’s a rare day that cancer thoughts overwhelm me. But every once in a while I’m caught completely off guard by deep despairing sadness or unrelenting unsubstantiated fear. Monday was one of those days. I found myself baking (what? I don’t bake) and dripping tears in the cookie dough while Tim McGraw sang…
The swings were empty, and I was close to tears. A wooden playset was about to make me cry. It was ridiculous really. We only lived in the house for six months. But I looked at the empty swingset while I stood in the empty house, and I thought of my three boys. Brothers who have this amazing propensity to find in each other the one nerve in a million that is most easily agitated and then patiently camp out on it until it causes the desired explosive reaction. During the past six months I’d often find those same button-pushing boys…