she's still talking, but I can't hear her over the feedback radiating from the just-spoken sentence that involves the words further consultation, polyp, removed it during the tests, and - the worst - biopsy.

And J and D are still talking in the background - something about Morrissey and CSI? - and I can't hear them either, as the words swirl around and around and magnify in my head. Eyes overflowing, but. I. will. not. cry.

She says, and I KNOW, that it's fine.

It. is. fine. Its fine. Itsfine itsfineitsfineitsfine.

No. problem.

Probably.

But it's the probabilities that always get me. When you have a mother who works so hard and is already missing chunks of her body. Whose parents were stabbed and left to bleed to death in a robbery. Who is strong-like-ox, but whose body didn't get the memo...

When you have that mother, and when she's the most wonderful person in your world. Then. Well... you don't much trust "probably."

It's never worked in her favour before. Even the thought is paralysing. ohgodwhatwould[will]ido?

every time i see you falling
i get down on my knees and pray

9:32 p.m. - 2003-01-16