My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Talk Instead of Treatments
They said they could not treat the problem. There were too many factors involved. They said it would take time, and money, and a lot more thought to even begin. Even then the problem might not go away. They were very apologetic, and kept saying there was a problem here. We knew that, and had for some time. We had come for a solution, not another explanation, but again it was ending in talk.
Labels:
complexity,
illness,
limitations,
suffering
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