Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Sunday, November 16, 2003

Boy, are my arms tired

It's been a long time coming, but my moment for apathy in church dealings is nearly here. In true Lutheran form, I am quietly and ashamedly thrilled.

I spent most of a day at my parents' house, and Mom slept about half of the time. My brother and SIL managed to make me feel like an intruder in their space although they arranged to visit after I did.

Our friends and their daughter met us for dinner about halfway between our homes. She has another ear infection, and my cabernay left something strongly to be desired.

We arrived home from our overnight in suburbia to find that Quidditch had broken into the fireplace and Muggle had yakked on our quilt.

It's Novemer 16th, and our neighbors have their Christmas lights up and on. Preventing this would be the only benefit to having a neighborhood association. This time of year, it's a tough call.

Paradox: When women are critical of people and things, they're "negative." When men do the same thing, they're "opinionated." Despite this, through careful self-evaluation, I have discovered that I am somehow only opinionated and not negative.

Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week.


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