Status Updates From Before I Go

But I know what Jack heard was: I don't want you. And I know it was the last straw. That I've pushed him away so thoroughly that he's out of my grasp, like the moon or the stars. Still, I spend an hour packing, refolding T-shirts, taking a pair of shoes out, only to put it back five minutes later. I know I'm drawing it out, expecting him to come home at any second, laughing that he fell asleep on his desk right in th

"Learn some breathing techniques." I stare back at him. "A specialist. That sounds like code for a therapist." The left side of his mouth turns up. "A respiratory therapist?" He taps his chest with his index finger. "Not a head one," he says, moving his finger to the side of his skull. "There's a difference." "OK," I nod. "As long as it's not some trick to get me to see a shrink." "I wouldn't do that. I know how you

"I don't want to look like I totally don't care." "You don't." "I know. But I don't want my principal to know that." I sigh. "I'll think about it." "Great," she says, smiling and sitting back into the bench, because we both know that I'll go. That I can't ever say no to Kayleigh. I lean back again and look up at the sky. An airplane that looks like a small sparrow, it's so far away, streaks across the blue, leaving a

And until this moment, I've been trying to ignore it, The little voice in my head has been making excuses. She's busy! I'm busy! We've gone longer without seeing each other! Quit being so needy! But now the little voice in my head is wondering if maybe, even after all these years, I've miscalculated her. Maybe she isn't as strong as I thought. Maybe she's avoiding me like all my other "friends" who fell away the firs

I realize that I'm supposed to be happy about this-ecstatic that my life expectancy could jump from four months to possible twelve, but all I can think is: what a shitty negotiation. I want fifty years, and all I get is a few extra months? It's like asking your boss for a five-thousand-dollar raise and he nods and says, "I'll give you ten cents." "We'll think about it," Jack says and stands up, my cue that the conver

PTSD and soldiers? No, I'm not especially interested in the military. But PTSD and its effects on children's cognitive development? Maybe. I like kids. The familiar creak of the back door opening interrupts my thoughts. Benny, warm against my thigh on the couch, lets out a yip, but then lays his head back down, too comfortable to greet the intruder. "Jack?" He's rarely home during NewsHour and my heart does a middle-