May 06, 2008
Originally published August 24, 2003
I took the boys over to see mama today. We stopped and bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the fixings on the way. I spilled the goddam gravy on Mama's kitchen table as I was lathering up my mashed potatoes. I made a mess, but my Aunt Peggy cleaned it up.
Aunt Peg and Uncle Virgil are visiting to keep an eye on my 92 year-old grandmother while my mama undergoes chemo and radiation therapy. She's got a pesky case of cancer that won't rub off. She had me sign a lot of papers today giving me access to her bank accounts and personal financials. My brother signed them all last weekend.
I don't want my mama's money. I want my mama.
She ran a marathon when she was 50 years old. She taught me how to farm. She took me in and cared for me when I had nowhere else to go after the Bloodless Cunt threw me out of MY HOUSE and the doctors cut up my guts.
She's put up with a lot of shit from me over the years and she still loves me as much as I love her. The chemo has made most of her hair fall out, but my mama is a GOOD-LOOKING bald-headed lady. That fact is not surprising. She was a baby-doll when she was young.
My dad was a lucky man.
I am lucky, too. I had a father who taught me to be a real man and a mother that I woudn't trade for the all riches of the world. A lot of kids never have that experience. I did. Bejus smiled upon me when I was born.
My mama feels good and remains optomistic. 15% of people with the cancer she has survive for five years or more. She says long odds are excuses for losers. And she is a WINNER. She looks good bald-headed in a baseball cap, too.
I wasn't going to blog about my mama, but I become really emotional on Sunday evenings. Quinton is gone. I'm alone in the Crackerbox. I feel like shit.
So, I wrote this post.
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