How strikingly appropriate that the title of Dennis Leary’s song describes my St. Patrick’s weekend thus far. Office tribulations aside, D and I found out last night that his mother’s problem is not a mere cellular aberrance in a portion of her lung, but a full-blown cancer of the lymph nodes. The tears that have been lurking behind my eyes since 6:30 PM yesterday just refuse to come out. You’re still in the Anger phase.
Friends are set to arrive any minute with Irish cheer. Dressed in jeans, favorite Guinness t-shirt from Dublin, shamrock head scarf and Celtic silver jewelry, I write hoping that words shot out into the ether dissipate some of my utter helplessness in the matter of saving one of the most wonderful people on earth. Why do we forge these human connections only to be let down by that which we cannot make scarce in our capacity?
Slainte, good people! To all a great St. Patrick’s season and at least one pint of that astounding ruby-red nectar which will wipe your troubles away.
I’m crying now.
We forge them because the Universe is too large and impersonal a place.
One option to solve this problem is to love.
The other option is to become completely alone, like the Buddha achieved. But how many of us can handle that?
My best wishes for a full recovery and good cheer.