My 9 year old nephew understood precisely what I needed for the two week surgery countdown. I didn’t need long talks. Or sympathy. I blanch at pity. And glibness. The flippant but it’s just surgery then it’s over, right? Or the but it’s not cancer cancer is it? are likely to end me. If I’m not first taken out by the uber-sincere how are you doing, though, with all this? inquiries. Which is to say, people are lovely. Or they try to be. And I’m cranky as all hell. Peeved that I have to have surgery at all. Furious that I’ll have to run the bookstore on verbal instruction alone. Strictly no handling the books. Which sounds hellish during peak retail season. I’m mad. Rubbed raw by everything anyone does to try to help. But this PillowPet my nephew picked out just for me? Somehow, that hit just right.
