One of Ada's Montessori classmates--the younger sister of one of her best friends--has leukemia. She was diagnosed a month ago and the chemo is already working. It's not my daughter, but it hit so close to home. To know she's virtually guaranteed to recover--something we learned yesterday--I can finally exhale.
Mostly. Because one of the risks of getting older is that mortality sneaks up around every corner. I've had 3 friends experience stillbirth. Another one's baby died of SIDS. Brain cancer claimed a colleague. And a heart attack took my dad at 55. And while Aria is going to kick cancer's butt, I have another friend whose child's brain cancer may prove incurable. It's awful and terrifying and heartbreaking, and all I know how to do is send food and the occasional awkward message of support.
|Ada, Grandpa and his beloved cat|
|Josh with John, 23|
|Playing "rich people" in a creek|
Does this mean I'm a grown-up too? And if so, why do I still feel like an impostor half the time?