Good evening, friends.
We left the house today. Packed up two cars, the family Lee, Pop Pop, the teeny twin grandmas, and Uncle Patrick and drove to the Cape. It was a moody, cozy day down there. Bernie gave the grand tour, the boys played with forgotten toys, and we drank red wine and hot tea and just enjoyed looking out of different windows. Going to the Cape in the winter always makes summertime seem mythical, but I couldn’t shake the very real memory many good times there in long hair and a bikini.
I can’t predict what is going to make me want to throw up and wonder why I left the house without drugs. It reminds me of how my Dedham-raised college friend spent years trying to mask her Boston accent, but then would get tripped up saying something she hadn’t practiced (like “Sears” or “re-tah-ded”) and be totally busted. There’s definitely a bit of me pretending to talk like the rest of you.
But then there’s Paige. Isn’t she fierce? And I had impromptu texts from ten of you today telling me you’re out there, and with me. And emails from amazing women who are on the other side of the disease and have the courage and generosity and patience to rehash it. For all of these reasons I didn’t have a full meltdown over my risotto and made it home to see all of these lovely messages.
Today, with great love and the utmost respect, I told my parents to go home. I’m going to need them a lot more later, and all of us could be doing more productive things than sitting around and staring at me. Bernie’s parents and family are arriving tomorrow with more support and love in the form of delicious food, energy work, many pots of tea, and probably a considerable amount of sitting around and staring at me. But I’m really looking forward to A-Ma fattening up Teddy and grilling my brother on his life and choices (“Why you smoke? You need to marry good, Chinese girl!” oh, and so many more). And as I giggle and escape to read these messages from you lovely people, I won’t be needing so much to pretend.