I killed my mother.
That’s what I think the next morning when I see her on the floor in the kitchen with a puddle of orange juice floating around her.
What I hope for the real life Darla is the same thing I hoped for my fictional Darla. That she’d get out of her own way. That she’d stop giving up on herself. Because inside both of them is something special, and I want to see them both succeed.
I began to hope Darla could succeed. I’d been writing a fictional version (originally entitled Sneakers for obvious reasons) inspired by my experience with Darla.
I know now parenting is not easy. As a child I didn’t understand my parents were who they were. Human beings with flaws and hopes and dreams and disappointments and baggage.
“We did the best we could.”
At the time I thought, yeah right. That was your best? Well, it wasn’t nearly good enough. Parents of their generation didn’t compliment their children because they didn’t want them to get a big head.
So what if “bestselling author” isn’t part of my resume? If raising two great kids is what I was meant to accomplish with my life, I am more than okay with that.
All my mother has inspired me to do is to be as much not like her as I possibly can. So maybe she has inspired me and I’m thankful for that.
he went to get up and his pants fell down because he’s lost so much weight and he didn’t have a belt on. I told him he should use the suspenders Kevin brought him and he said, “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He’s dying and it has to be about her. It’s NOT ABOUT HER. WHY DOES SHE KEEP TRYING TO MAKE IT ABOUT HER? It takes a certain kind of selfish self-centeredness to make his illness about her.
I went through Dad’s desk. He gave me copies he had of all the lab tests, etc., that have been run on him over the years, some MRI result reports. I would like to get this Dr. Sub’s records also. Maybe Sacry has those. I will ask. Yesterday I went…