He has a melanoma on the tip of his finger. The lymph nodes in his right arm look okay, but now they need not only to look more closely at the finger, but also to make sure there isn't cancer anywhere else.
He is going to have to have about an inch removed from his right ring finger. We are feeling pretty somber about it. Today my mother (who has chronic pain) noted, "Dad doesn't have any pain, but when he gets sick, it's serious." [See: Triple heart bypass in August.]
After we found out, I showered, and was checking in on my computer, and my mother remarked, "You don't seem very upset about Dad's finger. I'm very upset. Are you upset?"
I glanced at her and pulled a Spock*: "What would you like me to do? Would you like me to lie on the floor weeping? Yes, I am upset. But there is nothing I can do about it."
"Will you come out when he has the surgery?"
This conversation occurred about 5 times in the next ten minutes. Mom wants me to come out when Dad gets his finger operated on. Dad says I don't have to. It was the opposite when he had the heart surgery: my mother thought they could handle things fine on their own. But an inch of a finger? Well, my dad might need help counting out her pills.
I don't mean to sound glib or bitter. I'm not. I'm just tense, and I will probably be tense throughout this visit. That's the way it goes.
Sigh. I will see when his surgery is scheduled. He probably won't be able to drive himself home, depending on the anesthesia.
Today, my mother and I debated whether or not her autonomy in wishing to drive to the grocery store on pain meds and with severe arthritis and slow reaction times was worth someone's life. We chose to disagree. Guess which side I fell on?
I took my mother to get her hair done, then, as I do every single time I am here, went to buy her some clothes that she won't like, that won't fit, and that I will have to return tomorrow. We came back, and it was sunny and gorgeous and almost 60 degrees. I changed into my running clothes and then heard my mother faintly calling to me from her bed. I should perhaps note that I absolutely fucking HATE when I hear her faintly calling to me from her bed. It grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I went into the bedroom and she told me the clothes didn't fit.
I said, "Imagine."
"Can we take them back?"
"Yes. But not right now."
I left the room, and heard her faintly calling my name, so I faintly called back, "I am going running, and I cannot hear you."
I ran in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. I am seriously irked that I do not and cannot seem to have more control over my thoughts. They are my thoughts, they are in MY head, and I do not want to have them. Is it enough just to bite my tongue, not to act on them? I found myself thinking on my run today, "I shouldn't have brought myself with me when I came out to Utah. Who thought *that* was a good idea?"
I take out on my body my frustration with my mind, running again today until I felt like I would throw up. My time on my workout seems to suck, unless you consider how much of a vertical climb up a mountain that I walked (about half mile). I will take pictures tomorrow.
This evening, we are going to the 50th birthday party of my cousin Greg. Greg has struggled with an incurable, familial, genetic disorder for years. It mimics Parkinson's. His older sister Nancy had it and died at age 50, so Greg's goal has been to make it to 50. I haven't seen him for about twenty years, since his wedding, which ended badly three kids later. Greg has lived with his father (my aunt died shortly after Nancy died, probably of a heart attack) for many years. He has turned into an extremely talented painter over the years, which I find heart-rending, admirable, and beautiful.
I don't want to go to the birthday party. It will be awkward. I ran 4 miles today. Greg is dying. I don't know him. I don't know what to say.
I want a nap.
*Leonard Bones McCoy: My God, man, you could at least *act* like it
was a hard decision... Spock: I intend to assist in the effort to reestablish communication with Starfleet. However, if crew morale is better served by my roaming the halls weeping, I will gladly defer to your medical expertise. Excuse me.