My grandmother has cancer. I keep saying it over and over again to myself. I'm not shocked; I know this happens. It just feels strange on my tongue. To say someone has cancer means that they are sick. They are weary. They go from doctor to doctor. I know what they look like. I'm nicer to them than other patients. They interface with thousands of people who have only a vague understanding of how they feel. People who know their diagnosis and what cells are revolting in their body, but not the name of their granddaughter.

I hate it. I hate that I can't think about anything else. Or accomplish much of anything. I hate that she hasn't finished writing her stories down yet, even though I've been telling her for ten years that she had to. I hate that I don't have a lot of video of her. I hate that I'm not there to sit in the exam room at the oncologist's office. I hate that I'm her only gandchild--even though I know she really has a lot of other ones I don't even know about.

I even hate this peace that I feel. I hate it because I know as clear as anything that peace means that Christ is near in suffering. I hate that this is what has brought Him near. And I feel like He hates it, too. That's why we're in this together. I hate that pain is no longer something to observe but something that seeps into my brain and unblocks my tear ducts. I hate that I'm grateful when I want to be mad. I feel like now, of all times, I should get to be mad. But I'm not mad. I'm just really disappointed. About the memoirs. And the fact that the people who love us the most don't get to live forever.