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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Lump
I had a lump. It turned out to be benign. I think I was disappointed. I think this should have alarmed me, but it didn't, so I guess it is getting worse. While I realize this is not so permanent, it is for now worse that it has been since I am seeing it as an improvement.
Labels:
cancer,
change,
depression,
disappointment
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