Serious Stuff

The world has tipped and I am slipping off, sideways, quickly, on a slick surface of which I can not seem to grab hold of anything to stop the inevitable crash.

My Dad has Glioblastoma.

In the simplest terms possible, this is the type of Brain Tumor/Cancer that killed Ted Kennedy. It is inoperable, incurable, inconceivable. It takes your breath away to even think about it. Not MY family. Not MY father. This is Grey's Anatomy stuff. This is TV news stuff. Evil, ugly, inoperable cancer happens in stories that you hear, dramas that you watch ... not in the life you live. Not to the people who matter most to you.

I have truly felt for the past several days, since we learned of the mass and as we awaited the biopsy results, that I have fallen off a merry-go-round. It's my life. I am on the ground, skinned knees bleeding into the sand, watching it spin and spin and spin, out of control. I know that I have to jump back on. I need to grab something and hold on as hard as I can, dragging my feet behind me to try and slow this thing down. I know that I have to get back on ... but I have not been able to muster the courage to try.

And now that the monster pushing it ever faster has a name, the fear looms larger than before.

I will try not to disappear from here ... or to lose track of the goals I have set before me. But extra forgiveness when I slack would be greatly appreciated.