Jewelry

Maggie and Karen and I divided up Mom's jewelry yesterday. It sounds creepier than it was. We all sat on the bed with a big pile of plastic bags of labelled jewelry and Mom lay on the bed next to us, telling us stories of what everything was and where it came from, and we systematically picked the things we liked or cared about. I wound up with all the crosses, no surprise, so I can now wear entirely misleading religious jewelry to my heart's content. I hung up one of the crosses -- a stained glass one that my grandmother made -- on my wall and maybe I'll paint my bedroom to match it. It's made of circles of color, the vertical leg starting at yellow at the top and descending through shades of red and the horizontal bar in shades of light blue. If I knew where a working camera was, I'd post a picture.

Later, Henry and Maddie and Caroline and Zelda played in the pool. I wished for a video camera then, a way to capture the ages -- the bickering, the playing, the splashing, the way they explored the edges and tried out the jacuzzi/hot tub/cold tub. Maddie is still too small to have her feet touch the ground, but she's a very capable swimmer. She spent the most time in the tub, probably because in there she could play without the work of keeping herself afloat. She also spent the most time throwing the ball for Zelda. And she liked jumping in the pool, in dozens of different jump styles. The banana -- spread your legs wide and make a split. The macaroni -- flop in like a noodle. I suspect she and Henry would have found a style for any random noun -- or maybe even verb -- that Maggie or I gave them.

Birds

For some reason, I was charmed by this article on birds, and how parasites are actually just family asking for a little help. The idea of grandma and aunt ducks helping out their juniors is so endearing. Not Exactly Rocket Science is one of my favorite blogs these days: always interesting, always readable.

Pain

Hanging out at Mom's house, and feeling helpless. I can empty the dishwasher. I can make chicken soup and PBJs. I can call the CT scan place and ask for them to get the films ready. But I can't do anything about the fact that she's hurting. It sucks. And I want to write but the words just aren't happening.

Seth Godin's Improved Orwell

I read Seth Godin's revised Orwellian writing rules in my feed this morning and thought, I want to save this forever, how can I do that? Yeah, it was before coffee. But these are awesome. (I would have cut more from #3, though -- what's the point of those "out"s?

1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print. You don't need cliches.

2. Never use a long word where a short one will do. Avoid long words.

3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

4. Never use the passive where you can use the active. Write in the now.

5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent. When in doubt, say it clearly.

6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous. Better to be interesting than to follow these rules.

C & Z

Caroline has an only child attitude toward Zelda. It's kind of funny, actually. Yesterday, we went out to pick up pizza, and they were both in the back seat. Caroline didn't quite say, "But she's TOUCHING me!" but she came close. I had to remind her that it's actually Zelda's back seat: since Zelda is the only one who ever sits back there, it's not exactly a surprise that she's not quite sure what to do about Caroline sharing her seat, and that seemed to satisfy.

Swimming, though, it's come up again and again, and not because Zelda is doing anything. She's just...a dog. Curious. Interested in what Caroline is doing. Willing to run endlessly around the pool so that she's always next to where Caroline's head pops up. If she was doing something wrong, I'd intervene, but she's not, so when C. complains, I've said, "Yep, she's a dog." Finally this morning, when Caroline was complaining again, I said to her, "Honey, I know you'd like her to ignore you. But she's a dog. You're a people. If you can't ignore her, how can you expect her to do more than you?" I guess that struck a chord, because for the last forty-five minutes or so, Caroline has been doing a beautiful job of distracting the dog with the ball, then running and jumping in the pool. It's the first time they've ever really played together and it is seriously charming to watch.

Tiredness

I'm surprised by how really truly tired I feel. I have weird moments where I just can't keep my eyes open, and ten minutes later I realize I've actually fallen asleep, sometimes with the computer still on my lap. These little ten minute naps, though, are oddly refreshing: I get two hours worth of energy off them. And then I'm exhausted again, desperately wanting to lie down and pull the covers up. I think I've probably fallen asleep eight times in the last 48 hours.

I sat down this afternoon to read my ethics assignment and read for ten minutes and then thought, no, I'd really rather be talking to my dad instead. So I picked up the phone and called him and it was exactly the right choice. He said today had been pretty bad, that he'd been in a foul mood in the morning. Foul mood? My dad? I tried to picture it, and not so much. He's "eternally optimistic" according to my mom's sister, "able to make the best of whatever comes his way," according to his sister. Yep. But some things stretch even the most resilient.

Gah, time to go to class. I'm going to do badly on a quiz or two. Knowing that is less stressful than it would have been two weeks ago.

Pancreatic cancer

You imagine that there'll be a moment of shock, a pause where your brain tries to make sense of what just happened. But I heard it in his voice, in the sound of the way he said hello, and I was crying before he said the words. Pancreatic cancer that has metastasized to the liver. Pain management.

You imagine the stages, the ending. But I realized while walking the dog that there'll be no hair loss, no head scarves. That's chemo. That's when you have time. That's when you're fighting. This...this won't be that. I don't know what it will be.

But we spent a somewhat lovely tearful afternoon yesterday sorting jewelry and talking about trips -- to England, to St. Thomas, to Hawaii, to New Mexico. That silver and turquoise was from the Grand Canyon, your dad picked it out. That ring was from the little jewelry store in the mall, Dad used to go in and chat with the jeweler, Bob. That cross was a 21st birthday present from your dad. Those pins belonged to your grandmother. So many stories, I'll never remember them all.

I guess I should go to work. I guess that's what people do?