I have a very serious question.
How many times must one six year-old fart in the span of 15 minutes before he can be convinced that it might be time to visit the bathroom?
I only ask because if this goes on for another 15 minutes I'm going to have to find an all-night army supply store.
Some days you have to focus on the small things that make your day.
My new snazzy toothbrush came with a clock that's handy to have in the bathroom. It's a nice little reminder of the time as you're getting ready in the morning--you know in case you get a little too carried away flossing. Another perk of my fine clock is that it times how long I brush.
When I brush for two minutes it gives me a smiley face.
And when I brush for more than two and a half minutes??
It winks at me!
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My office is on the 22nd floor. Getting on an empty elevator from the garage usually means I get to travel all the way to my floor without any stops.
This morning I got to pick my nose in peace all the way to 22 (Don't think I haven't thought about cameras. I'm just sure they've seen much worse.).
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No clients today, so I got to wear these.
I've been staring at this blank form for quite some time with no cogent thoughts coming forth. There are plenty of ideas, jumbled fragments, but I can't seem to wrap any of them up into neat little packages.
And I think there's probably a very good reason for this.
My best friend has breast cancer.
She's 37. She has three children aged almost 5 and under.
I've known for a few weeks now--about as long as she has--and I think I've just been pretending it's not true.
The doctors caught it early. She just went in for a check up--a routine physical--and the doc suggested she go in for a mammogram to establish a baseline. The doc didn't feel anything. The mammogram didn't show anything specific, just some thickening. They sent her for an ultrasound assuming they were just ruling things out.
She has cancer.
And they still can't even feel the lumps.
That's a good thing. The prognosis is good.
And I thought I was okay. I mean, I don't have cancer. I can't complain. So I'm fine. I'm the fine one. I'm perfectly fine.
EXCEPT WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO MY BEST FRIEND???!!!!!
I can't fix her. I can't make it okay for her. I can't change things when she's scared. I can't make it better. And I hate that.
Each time my head starts in this direction, I just say shut up. You're not the one who is sick. Just shut up.
But I'm afraid too.
When my aunt was diagnosed with cancer nine years ago, I was sure she was going to be fine. Six weeks later I was at her memorial service. I still think of her almost every day.
I'm so afraid to be positive about Pfunky's cancer.
I'm so afraid.
