July brings with it good news and the heat. The biopsy results coming back and my days without numbers again. It is not until I find myself weeping into the shoulder of a friend that I realize how heavy all of the spring had been, and the last weeks of winter too. I. said, “we’re all dying every day,” and I thought of my father at the diner telling us over pancakes and eggs. The way I’d burst into tears when he joked that he would rather just drop dead in six months. All these years later, secretly wishing he had. Wishing we’d gone on more fishing trips and vacationed in Italy instead, because it made no difference in the end.
On a perversely warm morning in April, I sat in a plastic chair beneath the “New York Cancer & Blood Specialists” plaque and laughed to myself. Thinking, I really am your daughter, and knowing which way I’d go. Wanting to throw a great, big party at the end of the world.
The office just sent me a bill while I was writing this, which I think is pretty funny.
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