Stupid Cancer

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago mid-way through a long solo road trip, stalling because I suspected there was bad news waiting on the other end:

Forsaking my to-do list, I'm driving down to Iowa today. I got up and ready to leave an hour before I intended not realizing soon enough to go back to bed. With forty miles to go, I've made a pitstop at McDonald's for caffeine and now hesitate to get back in the car. I'm in the kind of hurry that a medical emergency demands which means that I both want to get there quickly and ... I don't want to go at all.

The distance and my out-of-sync-with-most job make this trek to the family farm and my farm family more rare than I would like and than I've promised myself. Over the years I've missed graduations and birthdays, hospitalizations and funerals, and far too many of the bowls of popcorn and slices of red velvet cake that taste like home. Whatever waits, I am grateful to be on my way toward home and the people that make it so.

With no choice but to continue onward, I regressed a year with each remaining mile. By the time I arrived, I felt very much like a frightened five year-old, wanting to close my eyes and stuff my fingers into my ears. Maybe this is the only way to bear unbearable news about a loved one - though I don't envy the doctors whose explanations fall on my stopped-up ears.

Here's what the 5 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

Here's what the 46 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

To be continued...