Jordan’s surgery was a success. She handled it bravely, only complaining in pre-op that she was hungry. When I told her she couldn’t eat anything until after the surgery, she replied, “that stinks!” When we returned to her side about an hour later, the first words out of her mouth were, “I’m hungry.” She devoured a purple popsicle and asked for pancakes. We took that as a good sign.She’s been sleeping well, and today was by far her most verbal.

Her eyes were open when I walked through the door. She fixed her gaze on me with one brow arched, the way she so often does when sizing me up. I glanced at Nettie to make sure what I was seeing was real. “She’s awake … and she’s talking,” Jeanette advised. “That’s great! How ya doin’, Jordan?” “Gooood,” she replied while turning her attention to another corner of the room.

You want to be wrong. You want everyone else to be right. For every negative thought that passes through your head, you want to believe that “thinking positive” will ward away what most you fear. Well-wishing friends instruct you to dispel skepticism, will against negativity, and imagine wellness. You try. You really try. But in the recesses of your mind, whispering just loud enough so that your rational stream of consciousness can hear, your inner voice gossips about what could really happen. And when fate agrees, and one of those pessimistic, back-biting ideas really does happen, the negative fringe incites rebellion. Every synapse in your brain attracts itself to the seemingly clairvoyant notion. Perception scrambles for a leader, and the logical point of view rescues sanity from the anarchy of positive thinking.

When I don’t write, it is usually a sign that things are going well, or that I’m traveling too much. Both circumstances explain the long gap between these entries. Quite frankly, I hoped my blogging days were behind me, or that I could start a new blog that covered more upbeat topics. But, here I am, back again, providing you with news on Jordan’s condition. She is back in the hospital as a result of new symptoms related to her battle with cancer.

Dear Jordan, I was 22 when I met your mother. At the time, both of us were draped in polyester. We worked together as ushers at The Music Center and the uniforms left much to be desired in the way of fashion. Although, when it was cooler, the girls got to wear dark cloaks with crimson linings. Your mother looked beautiful in hers, like a character from one of the operas whose doors we guarded every night.