a radio was on.

A thread of sadnesses, a crowd of sorrows, a clutch of fears. An ambush of tigers. A sloth of bears. A murder of crows. A range of mountains. A forest of trees. A flight of stairs. And why not a clutch of fears?  I went to see my surgeon yesterday. I think of him as mine now, because that's how my team refers to him. As in, we need to run these scans past your surgeon. When I met with him, he was much warmer to me than he was in the spring. Maybe he is starting to think of me as his patient.  He specializes in orthopedic oncology and is startlingly frank about my cancer (I think of the cancer in my body as mine, too). "That leg is full of cancer," he says, as an aside. I know that already, so it doesn't strike new fear into my heart, but it does feel a little like a soft drumbeat in my mind, where I keep my clutch of fears when they haven't wandered into my heart.  You might remember I had surgery on my left leg last winter. I had a plate put into the left leg in

And another summer's week at the Cape. All the children are here: Cameron, Kaitlyn, Zachary, Avery, Zoe, Asher, Elijah. And Dave, Kaitlyn's husband. And my niece Katie, and her girlfriend from Texas, Rachel. Tomorrow Kanika arrives, Cameron's wife.  Everyone was scattered through the first floor, making lemon zucchini cake, playing a complicated board game called Everdell, resting on the white furniture (why??) shimmying to Avery's playlist. And Zoe said, "Are they all yours?" in a sarcastic, Massachusetts accent.  Years ago, when the kids were Asher and Elijah's age, this is how we were greeted once at Honeydew Donuts. "Are they all yours?" Yes, I said then, shelling out eight dollars for four donuts and an iced coffee.  Yes, I say now, although they have multiplied, have various mothers and fathers, coupled and uncoupled with sundry partners, and yes, although they aren't strictly all mine, they are mine to be with, mine to love.  I'll

The New Yorker introduced me to the concept of interoception last week. It's simply our ability to feel what's happening inside our bodies. A "portmanteau of interior and reception." A consciousness about our own body's inner processes. A breakthrough to the surface: the body is exhausted--we think: I'm so weary, I need sleep. An unconscious knowing: our brain detects high glucose levels in our liver and releases hormones triggering metabolic changes. A response on the part of our bodies and minds to what will happen next, a forecasting of the future. This last idea confuses me: is this kind of interoception unconscious or conscious or somehow both? The article spoke of cancer, but not in the way I needed. A study suggests tumors consume huge amounts of energy and interoception might offer a way to alert us to cancer earlier. Totally unconsciously, so measured by what? Changes in blood measurements? I don't know--the research is in its infancy.  What I

 I grew up in Ohio, and the ocean we went to for vacations was the Atlantic Ocean, and the shore was in South Carolina.  We would drive ten hours in the car to get there and we would stay in a house known to us from 3 or 4 lines of print--maybe less, because what was there to say--in a thick rental brochure which would arrive in the cold, bleak spring of Ohio. Houses to rent were just listed, entry after entry in super small print--with no photos--just the information (three bedrooms, full bath, outdoor shower) and the quality for which you paid more: how many blocks back from the beach.  My father would pick a house and we would take this long 16 hour drive to get there, crowded in the back seat, the three of us kids, looking for license plates, playing word games, trying to keep our fussiness quiet back there. We would pick up the key from a rental agency and drive to the house, and there it was. Usually musty, with metal bunk beds and thin mattresses.  I didn't care--I loved the