When the Little Man moved in with us at just barely six years old, he’d eaten only at Denny’s and McDonald’s for the previous month. I assumed Denny’s for breakfast and McDonald’s for dinner, but it turns out it was the other way around: orange juice and a large cookie at McD’s for breakfast, fries and a burger at Denny’s for dinner. He had full access to soda, candy, and cable TV throughout the night.
The month before he moved in, I ate my daily favorite: brown rice, cooked greens, and tofu.
My good friend Corbin is assaulting her breast cancer with a kitchen sink. Those are the oncologist’s words. Corbin had asked me to accompany her to her first oncologist’s consultation, since she said she could count on me not to fall apart. I’m a good note taker and a clear thinker in times of crisis (having lots of experience, being married for a quarter-century to a chaos-maker who likes to set large objects on fire in a crowd of people during statewide burn bans). I wasn’t entirely sure what an oncologist was. I could make a pretty good guess, given the circumstances, but instead I asked the Man I Married, because he’s handier than locating the dictionary.
“Isn’t that a woman’s doctor?” he answered. Clearly, he was picturing stirrups.Read More »