Jessica called today.
It's spread. It's worse, and she's due for more surgeries. More pain, more healing, more, more more.
She sounded almost cheerful over the phone. She's been given a crappy hand in life, looked at death in ways women less than 90 should never have to, been down this road three times before, and sounded almost cheerful. Strong for the rest of us, so that we can be strong for her later.
A tennis ball sized cyst on one ovary and precancerous, turning cancerous, cells in her uterus. Time to have it all removed to be done with it. The risks of the last cure. When does the cure become worse the disease?
The problem with a too full life is that it can't accomodate another event. Not without removing a previously planned event, anyway. I'm glad I've started getting rid of the clutter, removing things I don't need in my life. At this point, statistically, my life is approaching half over. Statistically. I like to believe I have until 121 before I croak, but sometimes I wonder.
Usually after calls like today's.