January 20

Dear Susan,

There are only three people on my speed dial. Kevin, my momma, and you. My finger moves towards 7 or 8 several times a day. I know you don't have the energy or the breath to talk, so I don't call but once a day. I'm showing restraint that you will never know I had.

Last Saturday morning I woke up and felt like I couldn't breathe. It felt like my chest had been put in a vice. Every breath I drew was sharp, painful, and very unsatisfying.

Lucky me, I just went to the doctor, had a breathing treatment, got some antibiotics and steroids, and now, a week later, I'm only using my inhaler once a day. Easy peasy.

Your lungs aren't nearly as agreeable. Right now, they are filling up with fluid in which nasty cancer cells swim and multiply. You can't breathe. You won't be able to breathe. This will be the end. We both know that.

While it isn't a surprise, it still has knocked me senseless. The sorrow I have felt since we talked yesterday is crushing me. All I want to do is close my eyes and sleep. My head hurts. My heart hurts.

I don't know what I'm going to do without you.

I have a million questions for you. Everyday I have questions for you. Parenting questions. Questions about books. About math. About space. About fish tanks. About God. About any and everything. You are my Wikipedia.

I don't know what I'm going to do without you.