looks like sleeping, like dirty hair, like terrible tv that you don't want to watch, like hospitals, like needles, like waiting rooms, like not knowing what to say,  like casseroles, like nausea, like radiation burn, like diarrhea,  like not being able to answer the phone, like my dad trying to run a business without his business partner.

like the rest of us trying to desperately pick up pieces where we can- in the home, in the business, in being the one who does know what to say.

cancer looks like tears, like an extra glass of wine, like doubt, like guilt, and sometimes like avoidance.
cancer looks like the new normal when all you want is your old normal.
love you mom.  more than you know.  as much as you do me.