mourir

When my father calls in the middle of the afternoon, it's never good news.

A few weeks ago, my Aunt Caroline was diagnosed with cancer. A bad kind. A kind that, I'm told, wouldn't respond to radiation or chemotherapy. The only option was to cut it out of the blood vessel in her leg. Earlier this week she felt ill. My Uncle Nick took her to the hospital, just in case. They ran some tests, and found out that it was too late to do a damn thing; the tumour was too big. On April 6, 2006, she passed away.

My dad rambled. I couldn't hear, I was just about to start my shift at work and it just sounded like everywhere there was so much noise. I probably have the details wrong. Maybe the whole story I just told is complete crap, except (deeply, truly sadly) for the important bit. I feel numb. Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet. Maybe keeping away from it is why I've thrown myself headfirst into Major League Baseball minutae, which I haven't cared at all for in more than a decade. I don't know. I'm worried about my dad, and especially my grandmother. I'll see them soon. I'm hoping they're taking it as well as they can. Those words seem so empty right now; but I don't know what else I can say.

My dad said he was "sorry to tell me this way." For a split second, "How else could you tell me?" rolled through my mind. It has taken me until now, ten-and-a-half hours after, to realize that this was just something he never wanted to have to tell anyone. And who could blame him?

We'll miss you, Aunt Caroline, and we'll always love you.