I was raised proper, by which I mean a proper appreciation of language in all its splendor. Our family did not exclusively fawn over the most flashy words, nor the most humble. We took delight in using descriptors of all stripes, including those reserved for the bawdy house.
You all forgot I could write the funny, didn't you? I did.
We find ourselves at sea with the imprecision of language in medical jargon. Scrap it and start over.
Dad and I are on a carnival ride in earnest now; at the very least we're in the car a lot. His radiation treatments have begun and every night I whisk him away to OHSU Waterfront where he gets on the Sky Tram, has a beautiful view for about five minutes, and then steps into the building where he's going to get zapped. I wait for him below, not quite knowing what to do with myself.
The problem with theory is that it's theoretical. I want the theory that will help me wash the dishes and pick up the slack during my Dad's illness.