it's Monday. And I'm still not made for Glitter Rock n' Roll.

I had never heard of Nuclear medical physicists until August if this year. Apparently, they are considered experts in dealing with the interactions between ionizing radiation and matter. Many of them also have expertise in computer science and image processing. Unsurprisingly, they are not known for their compassion or bedside manners.  This was shared with me by a gruff retired colonel and allergist, currently undergoing treatment for aggressive skin cancer. He is not a tall man and he doesn't need to be. His stoicism provides all the gravitas one could need. But he also radiates inherent compassion, which would be an oxymoron if you haven't experienced his friendship. 

His son died in 2000 - colon cancer, the aggressive, brutal kind.  When my son died in 2010, he stood beside me as I admired his train layout - an impressive Bavarian layout. It was something we had in common, being German and American, having been imprinted on by one culture before embracing another. His father was - ironically - a phycisist who came to the US with his family as part of Operation Paperclip. In 2010, we had the inexplicable grief and relief of watching a child we loved no longer struggle in agony, of walking around with invisible wounds. He put his hand on my shoulder, we said nothing. And in that moment he went from being my friend's dad to being a close friend. And now, his daughter updates me and I send funny memes to the family, holding space. Trying not to fret. In their section of the 1000 Acre Wood, I play the role Tigger. 

I woke up this morning - again feeling adrift. This time, it was after a series of chaotic, conversational dreams. I swear, sometimea the ghost cafe in my house just won't shut up for their open mike nights, late night gigs, and heated discussions on chaos theory. This morning, I woke up frantic because I just wanted to be able to listen to my mom's last voice mail message.  I don't go down that rabbit hole very often, not since the electrical storm of post-natal depression. was quietened. But when I do, it is a swift and jarring fall, a ring on a ladder breaking under the weight of 'what if' and regret. 

My youngest is 7 today. It is bittersweet. He's very much like his father, the best bits. Sometimes, I look at him and I can see how hard it was for his grandmother, raising a son with unacknowledged neurodiversity. I think about taking the kids to Brasilia - my son was the age his father would have been when he lived there - and I think about how charged an environment it was, the dictatorship, the neighbours who would disappear, the city planned out to a Man-child's vision. Like DC, with unrelenting sunlight, one cannot help but wonder how this is the landscape chosen, so far inland, so remote and yet at the pulse. Maybe that is why.

My living children accuse me of playing favourites.  I sigh, try not to grit my teeth in frustration. You can't explain how the Favourite - according to their criteria - is the dead one, requiring so little actual care. 

And today is simply another Monday.