Jordan’s counts are low. She missed school and slept all day. Tomorrow she will probably receive a transfusion. We are officially starting the blood drive. If you feel like bleeding, please send us an email.

Nearly a year ago today, the greatest team in baseball __[yes, I’m biased and prone to sweeping statements]__ made the playoffs but failed to advance to the big game. October 8, 2004: two games down, the Angels in Boston struggling to stay in the division series, facing the surging Red Sox, a formidable foe, aggressive, crafty and determined to leave a mark. I sit in a hospital waiting room. Jordan has been in surgery for four hours.

The roast is cooked to perfection. Slightly pink in the center, moist but not raw. The fried potatoes steam over the plate, a faint hint of bacon wafting in the air. My arteries harden as I lean in to eat, knife and fork in hand. “Let’s say grace.” Jordan’s brow is peaked with rapt intensity, pertinence spilling onto the table from her ravenous eyes. I lower my utensils reluctantly; the habit of praying long lost.

She has a dream. A monster chases her around the house, then begins to eat her. She says she stands still while the monster picks at her and it makes her sad. Until Daddy comes and scares the monster away. Every time she tells me this dream I think to myself, “no pressure!” But for the dream, Jordan is happy. She doesn’t dwell on many setbacks. She is less moody. And she is much more cooperative when she goes in for chemotherapy each week.

I haven’t written for awhile because I’ve been on the road all week. It was hard being away. Jordan is doing well. She got a little sick from the chemotherapy this time around, but we think we can remedy the problem by increasing the dose of antacid. She only missed two days of school, and she’s back to her familiar ways.