This makes me really really happy, and really really sad.
It’s impossible to be too sad in a situation like this. She is alive and well and talking to me. She made it through (in reverse order) grad school, working, regular school, adolescence, childhood. I remember when I brought her home from the hospital and she screamed hour after hour. I couldn’t picture having a kindergartener and was sure something would happen to her along the way. And things did happen, but she aced kindergarten and at least made it through the rest. She’s a scientist. And nine hours is in my time zone. And I can afford a car that can do it. And it’s in this country and in a nice place and there are cell phones and Facebook and airplanes and texts.
It’s impossible to be sad when I know people on chemo, I know people who care for their grandchildren because their children are incapable. I know people who are unemployed and people who struggle with alcohol.
I’ve practiced being grateful for 35 years now, and I’ve gotten very good at it.
But . . . nine hours. I feel a sharp little pain about that. Say the pain is .1% out of 100%. I know I can’t feed it and water it and help it grow bigger, the way I helped my little girl.