I'm a writer, which means I am a lover of words. I love the way they look on paper,  a hundred different typesets, the feel of well worn paper, freshly sharpened pencils, the smell of old books, handwriting loops and angles, the cadence of poetry, the sound of well read verse. I love double entendre, knowing the root of a word, and the delicious variety of choices to say exactly what I mean. I love libraries and bookstores and dictionaries and thesauruses. I love words. They mean something. They are something. They have power, and we all know that "with great power comes great responsibility". 

As much as I love words, and writing them, that responsibility looms largely when it comes to blogging. Relatively few people in my life even know I have a blog. Those who do probably don't even remember it is here. I never wanted to be held accountable for writing on a regular basis. And I never wanted to inadvertently say something that could hurt someone. The internet is akin to Conrad's heart of darkness- much less cozy than a familiar composition book, or it's fancier cousin, the journal.

When I really want to pour my heart out and just be ugly, bitter, and mean, those are the thoughts best written by confessional's pen and tossed in repentance's fire-pit, releasing me from their toxicity. The internet does not forgive. What you pour out here, stays here forever. You are not anonymous, even if you don't choose to broadcast your blog on every social media to which you ascribe. Your words can- and will- be found. 

A blog post is not a journal page that can be ripped out, turned into a paper crane, and tossed into the flames with no one the wiser.  Anyone can trip over your words, at any given moment, even long after your heart is spent, and the rage subsided, and all is once again well with your world.  And words mean something. They are something. They have power. Words, once wielded, cannot be sheathed quietly and easily forgotten...

I left my father in a hospital room tonight, not knowing what the next few days will hold. More likely than not, his zeroed white blood count will rally and he will be back to his "new" normal self just in time for his next chemo treatment. More likely than not, now that we know he is susceptible to bottoming out, it won't be so bad next round. And, more likely than not, we will do this dance a few more times. But I am acutely aware that there will come a point in the not so distant future, that I will leave my father in a hospital room for the last time.. I know my father knows this is inevitable. And I know we both acknowledge that only God knows when this eventuality will take place. What my father doesn't know, doesn't realize, cannot even begin to grasp, is that I've been down this road before, not quite so involved, except for my heart, and this second time is tearing me apart.  I was 16 when I walked this road with my mother, when I watched her struggle and fight, and relatively quickly lose her battle with cancer. They were divorced then so he wasn't there, so he doesn't understand, couldn't know, the devastation I face when cancer looms so largely over his life and mine. I put on the face, I take care of business, I sign all the papers, make all the appointments, talk to the doctors...but inside, I'm ripped to shreds and by the grace of God, a good man who holds me fast, a family who hugs me tight, and friends who lift me in prayer, I manage to keep it all together.

I cannot imagine what my father is going through but helplessly, agonizingly, witnessing cancer's sure and steady march against him is excruciating for me. I simply cannot believe I have to go through this again...