The Wait

Twenty-four years ago, I started writing about my son Forrest. He was two at the time, and his cancer diagnosis came out of the blue, tossing me into a new life that made zero sense and un-did me in every way. I was so desperate that without even thinking about it I started to write about what was happening to me, to Forrest, and to us as a family.

At the time, email was pretty new, unreliable, and frustrating. The word ‘blog’ hadn’t emerged yet, but that was what I was doing. I remember sitting at a community computer in the Ronald McDonald House living room almost every day, hoping that whatever I’d written would go out and arrive at the addresses on my email list. When it failed, my heart would collapse especially when there wasn’t time or energy enough to try again. I still don’t understand why I needed to communicate in this way, but I know for sure the love that came back to me kept me from losing my mind.

Today is different. My 95-year-old mom is sleeping in the pink velvet recliner she’s been sitting in for the last thirty years. I’ve been caring for her these last ten days as she navigates her decline. Instead of wanting to write, I just want to be here. It’s tiring work, but important for both of us. This time, it’s her story. A private one going on in her own head, in her own home. This time, I just need to be here. It’s an entirely different experience.

Thank you for being there, for your patience, and for giving a hoot about what I might write.

Love,

Bar

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