So January. That didn’t last very long, did it? Now here it is mid February already and I haven’t visited here since New Years.
I’ve been working furiously on THE BOOK. It’s a long story, and one I should probably tell you someday soon, but I’m adding a Part II. I thought I’d already said everything I had to say about cancer, but it turns out that fucker threw a LOT of shade on my pregnancy and parenting. So I’ve decided THE BOOK isn’t finished, after all. And I’m fairly consumed with remedying that.
But that’s not really what I wanted to tell you today.
Do you remember when I wrote about this man? I wrote about him quite a bit. He’s in the book.
And as you also may remember, he died. It happened when I was seven months pregnant with Paul. And it was…hard. Emotional. Humbling. Crippling. While I desperately wanted to attend his memorial, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s a decision I’ve always…well I feel like I let him down some how by not going, like I didn’t honor his memory. Since then, I’ve felt like I needed to carry him with me, a witness to his existence.
So, like all the hard things, I knew I needed to write about it, write about him again. He will make another appearance in THE BOOK.
I started that chapter today. Started writing about how it felt when I heard he was gone. Started thinking again about that dinner, his emaciated frame, his huge jaw, and the lumps that protruded from his thin neck below.
So I reread the first chapter, trying to put myself back in that moment. Back at that table. Back in that impossibly difficult position.
I didn’t use his real name when I wrote the chapter. I won’t tell you his real name now. It’s not mine to give.
But imagine my surprise when I realized I’d given him the same name I gave to my second born, a full year before I’d even conceived his older brother.