2001-03-12
Dear Diary:

    Tonight I worry about a friend.

    A friend of mine is about to lose his mom. There's talk of turning off machines and letting nature take its course.

    I am so sad for him. They were close.

    It's something most of us will have to face at some point in our lives, the death of our parents. My friend has been lucky because he's in his 50's; his mom lived a long time.

    It's so weird. I mean we spend a lot of our lives trying to deal with parents, with growing up and separating from them, with becoming independent. And yet �

    And yet they are our parents. And no matter how old you get, and how independent you are, and how rocky things may have been between you �

    They are your parents. Like it or not, they are your life templates. Even if you say, "I will NEVER be my mother" then your mother is your template of how not to be.

    Isn't that just a kick in the pants?

    I was never close to either of my parents. My mother died when I was young and things were always rocky between my father and I. I would have rather eaten putrid, maggot covered meat than ever ask my father for anything, but when he died I felt as if I had lost a harbour in my life.

    Even weirder, I felt as if I had lost some sort of invisible protection from death. As long as my dad was alive, there was no way I could die, you know?

    When my father knew he was dying, he chose to go without machines. My friend's mom did not have that choice, things happened too quickly.

    How difficult this must all be.

    Tonight I worry about a friend.

--Marn

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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.