I hope you’ll forgive this rather personal post. Hopefully I’ll get back into the concerts and sports thing shortly. I just needed to get this off my chest.
When I remember to do it, I enjoy this blogging thing. It is sincerely amusing for me to share good music, to think about the joys of sports. This mode of writing is a simple, effective escape, a diversion from the other ups and downs of life. Even the hockey lockout is amusing in a way, as an outlet for anger, a step away from politicking or whatever else there may be.
But for today, I’m taking a brief detour from hockey and music. It can wait a moment.
We’re going to cross into something a bit more serious, if only this one time, to discuss the most meaningful “NHL” acronym in my life, and one that is likely to dictate things with at least some part of my family for the foreseeable future.
Earlier this year, my father was bothered by a lump on the back of his head, to the point where he decided to see is doctor. This wasn’t immediately a concern (his mother, he, and I have experienced normal, harmless, hereditary cysts before). But this one was a bit different, the particular location was a somewhat concerning and also slightly painful to sleep on. His doctor decided that a more involved surgery would be desirable. So on May 1st, he went to get the lump removed. Some 500 miles away, I sat in a classroom in Ohio, taking a graduate statistical mechanics exam that I thought, naively, would be the biggest event of my day.
I left the test, tired and a bit angry (it was difficult, after all), and went into the basement, down to my lab to read some other things, to clear my mind. I had completely forgotten about my dad’s appointment. In the basement office, cell phone signal is weak. I missed a number of text messages and a voicemail. As I started to leave for the day and went up the stairs, my phone was flooded with the previously-missed contacts from my mother. I suddenly remembered the surgery, so I called her.