Gas

Last night, my mom called to give me an update on my grandmother. She was talking and I was sort of tuning it out because it was all medical stuff. At some point, I realized I should tune back in because it sounded like she was saying something important. She said that the doctors said after she was on this one treatment for a while, if she started feeling good enough and wanted to, she could start chemo. They said that it would only extend her life a couple extra months.

A couple months!? Isn't is supposed to give you a couple years?

So then my mom explained how the doctors probably didn't tell my grandma this, but since my mom's out of town and has to make arrangements and stuff, they wanted her to know that they're only giving my grandma a couple of months now, as it is. I guess I knew this. I saw this at her birthday. But still. It's fucking awful to hear. And I don't know what to do. I guess I should start a routine of seeing her on a weekly basis. I should have been doing that these past two years, all along.

It strikes me as odd, incidentally, that the most pious of the grandparents is going to outlive the more interesting ones who led fun lives. Think only about god, and you prolong the amount of time until you get to hang out with your pal. Seems a strange reversal of things.

At any rate, while I'm talking to mom about this and feeling really fucking bummed out and like I need a hug, Martin's digging in his pan across the room. Suddenly, as he's sitting there, he crouches down and lets out a big, loud, human-sized/ sounding/ length fart.

So then my mom and I talked about animal farts for the rest of the call.