She writes from waiting rooms, literal and figurative. Her updates paint a portrait that but for a few brushstrokes could be my own.

There isn’t a word she shares that doesn’t make me think—sometimes it’s Eugene in the late 70s, other times it’s different track meets for different high schools and other times still it is: Am I grateful enough?

It’s morbid and pointless, but when someone is going through something you imagine what if it was me? Or maybe that’s just me. I find myself searching so deep, wishing for something else that I could do, some combination of words that might make her situation not so. Even this post, I struggle because is this self indulgent, does this help in any way? The little girl in me thinks maybe any effort expended in thinking of her might change things. The other side of me stews. I am impotent to do anything but post comments on her posts.

Her last update: They found cancer in Ransom’s lungs.

No more words.

Just quiet, fervent hoping that there is still a way.