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.

This morning, Kris and Heather were up early to move a truckload of Heather's stuff up north to Oakland (so sad! Our roomie is leaving us!).

On the way out, Heather said to Kris, "I need a Starbucks!" so off they went to the nearest Starbucks. As they arrived, Heather turned to Kris. "I'm buying, order anything you like!"

So he ordered a coffee.

Once he had it in hand, Heather\ looked at him (presumably squinty eyed and all) and responded, "Hmmm... Kitt's not here.... Coffee! You're having coffee!!?"

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

"No!"

I plunked the kids down in front of the television for an hour so that Mom could sew a few pillow cases, and I could catch up on a small bit of work. I know, I know, don't use the television as a baby-sitter, but it was the first time in four days, and for only an hour, so I'll still sleep well at night.

Just before they started watching, Mom asked Jackson, "Do you need to go to the bathroom?" He answered "No." When she insisted, "Because it looks like you need to go..." he cried out, "No!" So, we turned on the television, and went to do our tasks.

Sitting next to the couch where Sam and Jackson were sitting, I noticed Jackson kept grabbing his pants. After about twenty minutes, I had enough.

"Jackson, do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"No!"

"Because it looks like you do."

"No! I don't!"

"How about you try?"

"NO!"

"Okay, you go try, or I'm going to turn off the television."

"NOOOO!"

*click*

Glaring, he looked up at me, and trudged to the bathroom. I stood around the corner and listened, as he peed for 20 seconds straight at full blast.

Right, kid, that's a funny kind of no.

Call from Kris today. Shake up happened at work today, and half the staff was laid off. Kris included.

Contrast our two reactions:

Mine: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Kris': "Eh."

Kris had been working a LOT of hours semi-recently, fewer recently because the big push was over and they were all recovering from the long hours. His boss was forced out two weeks ago, just as the department was ramping up to work horrendous hours again, hours Kris wasn't sure he wanted to work.

He wasn't sure about the long term viability of the company, given the hours they were about to be asked to work. His boss leaving gave them a small reprieve, but ultimately not a full one. Kris had been asking if I had enough hours to keep him busy full time. Mike really doesn't want spouses working together, and I can see how scary the dynamics would be: feast and famine of a small business is scary when all your eggs are in one basket.

One basket.

One very small, burnt out basket.

To say I'm not a bit scared would be lying. I'm nervous. We have health insurance paid until the end of next month, so we're good there.

Kris, I'm with you, just as I before. It's just a fire under the butt to get us going, time to start on our projects, see where we end up. We have our safety net. We have each other. You are my rock. :*

Much to my disappointment, Sam continues to say, "I can't." It annoyed me last year. It annoys me now. How many years of my life did I live believing I couldn't, when in reality I could? How much could I have accomplished if I didn't care that I couldn't, if I would have just tried? I see so much of my self in that little kid, and I'm determined to help him avoid the self-doubt and self-loathing I grew up with.

Determined.

After only a day with him, I sat him down and, in my best "I'm the adult here" voice, I told him he does something that I really don't like, and I wanted him to stop it.

He looked up at me from his seat on the couch, a look of puzzlement and worry. What did he just do that made Auntie so stern? She was laughing with me just a few moments ago.

I told him, "You say, 'I can't' when you haven't even tried. I will never ask you to do something I don't believe you can do. You're a big boy now, you're smart, and strong, and coordinated, and funny, and ticklish." I had to get my Sam tickling in quickly, before he was too worried. "You can do a lot, but you have to try."

He seemed to understand a little bit.

"So, this week," I continued, "we're going to try."

He looked uncertain.

"That's all I want you to do, is try."

Part of my heart sank when he asked in response, "But what if I fail?"

How did this kid learn a fear of failure so darn young?

"If you fail, you fail. But that won't make me, or your mom, or your dad, or Uma or Yoda or Jackson love you any less. If you don't try, you won't know if you could succeed."

"Okay," he answered, so small.

I realized my mom was watching over my shoulder. I wondered how much she had heard.

"So, this week, we'll try, right?"

"Yes."

Several times today I had to remind him, "What do we say when we think, 'I can't,' Sam?"

He'd answer, "I'll try."

And try he did.

He swam the length of the shallow end of the pool to the edge of the deep end. He dove to the bottom of the pool near that edge to retrieve a toy. He bounced all the way back to the shallow end when he couldn't touch. He opened a box by himself, one that he almost gave up on. He read a sign by sounding out the letters, one he told me he couldn't read.

He could. I asked him to try, convinced him to try, and he did. He tried and could.

None of the accomplishments were big, but maybe in the accummulation at the end of the week, all together, they'll be huge.