It’s family day.  My brother, like me, is an early riser.  I call him at eight o’clock, as if it were any other Saturday, and he asks me how I am.  I make sure he’s sitting down before I tell him, and I feel the weight of it hit him and hurt him.  I want to apologize– I do apologize– for having such bad news.  We cry together, over the phone.  He has practical questions, many of which I can’t yet answer, and offers to find out from the oncologist who worked with his sweetie (and who had previously worked at Memorial Sloan-Kettering) who on staff there she would recommend.  I thank him.

My sister calls me, also as usual.  She asks how I am and I ask her whether anyone has said anything to her.  Nobody has, so I have to tell her, too.  She, at least, is not alone; she has a husband and three adult children.  The oldest just got engaged; the youngest is on the point of moving to Arizona for a year.  The middle one is working in the area.  My sister is shocked and upset, but not hurt in quite the way my brother has been hurt.

I am so sorry for raining on everyone’s parade.

When I talk to my mother I mention this to her.  I much prefer to make people happy, I tell her.  She says that I’m usually pretty good at that, but, she concedes, not so much this week.

I am infinitely lucky in my family.