I haven’t written much about this whole thing as Mom is a private person. As much as I share too much, she shares too little. As alike as we are, we are very different on that point. However, I need to talk about this, at least a little. It’s how I cope and I promise I won’t put in the specific details; they don’t serve any point other than technicalities that will bore the casual reader here anyway.

Mom has cancer. Not a little cancer, but rather an overachiever’s amount of the stuff. Lungs and brain, specifically. She’s on hospice, and you only qualify for that if you have six months or less to live. She has less than that.

Mom and I are as close as you can be. We’ve been best friends for years and years – since I went away to art school I think, and when I was a little girl as well. As a young teen through high school, we had our rough patches, but most of that was due to clashes in our bi-polar conditions as well as my attention deficit disorder. Those bumpy years were the years immediately following the death of my father. We mended our relationship when I went away to school and built our mother and daughter friendship to be the strongest I know. She means everything to me, and that’s why I’m here and not leaving until after she’s gone.

There is so much to share about this recent experience, but I have lots to do in the short time I have ‘off’ caregiver duty today. It’s my first break in hours shy of a month, and there is much to do before I sleep tonight.

More soon.

I’m back in the US for awhile and here’s one of my cats, Rocket, ensuring that the people working on the deck of the priest’s house next door don’t get up to any funny business.

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I used three paragraphs of blog text for this analysis, and I’m curious to see what one of my stories or novel draft could say by comparison. Interesting, though one can only speculate as to the accuracy of this sort of thing.

Though I am pleased with the results, yes.

UPDATE: Just tried it with a chunk of my fiction…
I still write like Stephen King.
(Perhaps I should polish up a manuscript and fire it off to some agents… )

The beach, climbing the rocks, breathing the sea air, feeling the sand give slightly under my feet, feeling the sun warm my body, feeling my muscles flex and conquer rocks and boulders and hills and hikes, hearing the gulls and tiny cliff birds, squealing when a surprise surge splashes my feet, watching for seals, spotting tiny crabs and rock pool fishes…

I felt this in Spain; I felt this as a child. I feel it now.
Me and the sea– meant to be!