So Erma Bombeck was telling the truth

My nephew has cancer.

I've had Erma Bombeck's book I Want to Grow Hair, I Want to Grow Up, I Want to Go to Boise (Children Surviving Cancer) for years. I used to imagine what I'd do if I got cancer. Would I be brave? Would I pack it in? Would I cry over losing my troublesome hair?

Now it's my three year old nephew and I'm scared shitless. His Mother just called me in tears. She's one of my best friends, and we work together. I see her almost every day. I've been friends with her since she was pregnant with the boy: I've literally known him his whole life. I gave his his first nickname, Monkey Baby (he hooted when I held him six hours after he was born).


Our boss just left. I haven't told him yet. Her husband was in earlier before they got the MRI results in to tell him she may take a few days off. I don't expect to see her anytime soon.

My nieces are seven and (almost) six. Do they know? Will they understand? Such smart, sweet girls. They still talk about the the time I babysat and we ate cookies and watched Scooby Doo on Zombie Island. I've offered to watch them whenever needed. That offer will stand. I love those girls. I love that boy. I love that family: her father is officiating my wedding next year.

I called Bahamute and told him what my friend told me "The doctor used words like Oncologist, and Tumor, and Malignant."

He was quiet for a moment. "He's only three."

"I know." I explained that her husband came by to talk to Steve before this happened.

"He's only three." He hasn't heard anything I've said. I understand.

"I know."

"...I have to call Mom." He hung up. I don't blame him. His Mother is his rock (well, her and I). I can't imagine telling my Mother. She loves kids. She's good with them too, doting on her grand nieces. She'll go to pieces over this.

I look at my stack of work. I'll lose myself in it shortly. I won't call my other friends. If they ask me to I will spread the word, but for now it'll rest. Good news will stay and bad will refuse to leave. Jewish wit.

I joke my way out of stress. That's over. I am the shoulder to cry on, the friend to lean on from here on out. I'll joke with them again. Someday. Sometime. When they need it. Please God, let me know when to be funny and when to be serious. Let me know how to handle them, not too gently and not too harsh. Please.

I don't know if I'll post this to facebook. Not yet. Let my nonexistant followers find it first. Let my best friend from high school look it over and tell me what she can: she's been though more loss than me. I can't be the bearer of this news.

I want to go home. To what? Cry on Bahamute's shoulder? Sit and wait for news knowing my friends are in Detroit losing their shit? To try and write my unpublished novels, fanfiction, or a youtube review script? No. I'll stay. There's work. And she will have a job to come back to. I can write more later, off the clock, when the numbness is gone. My sternum hurts.

I wish I was on better terms with God right now. It hasn't been very good since my Father left. But I'm trying.