In the end, it was indeed Tenzing's heart. It was likely quietly giving out for some time, just as we'd been told two years ago it would, and what ended up starting it all was a thrown blood clot somewhere around his right shoulder. 

As the day went on, fluid started building up in his lungs. He struggled to breathe, even with sedation.

first breath:
joy, laughter, jubilance, tears
photo ops
congratulatory cards
bassinets and sleep deprivation

first love:
nervousness, sweating, jubilance, tears
and everything in between
photo ops
secret letters
stolen kisses and forever promises

first loss:
disbelief, numbness, anger, tears
no photos
just flowers
and wondering how it all went so fast
from that to this

With time comes healing, and with healing, some degree of acceptance. With time, comes the willingness to talk.

To some degree.Today, I'm making available something that has been up on cat.net for quite some time, but that I wasn't ready to share: a cancer diary. Behind the scenes, I kept track of all the entries relating to Dad's diagnosis (and everything that happened afterwards). I knew that eventually, I'd want to compile the entries and make them available in a slightly more accessible format.

But I don't read those entries. Don't really even like to think about them. Even now, when the random-entry generator turns up an entry relating to Dad's illness, I reload the page to get a different random entry.

Am I in denial? No. Denial would be easier.

Someone got brave today and asked the question that I think has been on the minds of most of my friends lately: "How are you, Amy? Not how you say you are, but how you really are."

Asking such a question to someone who has recently lost a family member is an inherently risky action. There's no way of determining in advance which person you're talking to: the friend who is bravely wandering through her days, or the friend who has decided that this whole bravery and wandering thing is for the birds (and who is looking for an excuse to cry).If you reach the former, you'll get a cautiously-optimistic answer: "I'm fine."
If you reach the latter, you'll get a cautious answer: "I'm fine."

The difference is in the tone of voice.

A friend of mine confessed to me recently that she didn't know what to say to me, because she's never lost a close friend or relative to death. I didn't tell her the real answer, because if you've never experienced it firsthand, you'll undoubtedly think the person telling you the answer is trying to deliberately mislead you for some strange reasons of their own.

Usually, when I'm writing something to be posted here, I have music blaring. Not tonight. Tonight I want to hear the uneven clacking of keys as I hesitantly pound out the thoughts that have stayed with me today. Better, I think, the thoughts get put down—even at this late hour—than to take them to sleep with me.

I am a regular at the new Publix store out in Madison. I think most of the people who work there recognize me now. They greet me with smiles that seem unforced: I would like to think this is because I am cheerful—dare I even say funny?—with them. Several people have noticed that I often come in with Kat, and I think that for a moment or two, some of them presumed that she and I were a couple (judging by the surprise elicited when I mentioned she had a boyfriend and I a husband, neither of whom are ever seen at said grocery store).