Today my mother said she’s receiving chemotherapy for her Sjogren’s and other autoimmunes. I’m a derp when it comes to medicine, so I asked if cancer was also involved—but she set me straight. So my mom could be visiting me in September bald. She promises me she’s okay, yet it’s still weird watching my mother fall apart, her immune system assaulting instead of protecting her. She says she’s glad she’s coming a month earlier, to see my garden.
She tells me it’s important I read about all these autoimmunes, Sjogren’s and fibromyagia, since they’re hereditary. And I’ve been Internet reading all day; I’m still embarrassed about my lack of knowledge with the chemotherapy.
Tomorrow I turn thirty-two. I asked Chase if he could bind together my novel notes; I wrote 19,000 words in setting, character, and plot ideas. The manuscript itself is around 20,000 words right now. Here’s hoping I can use the next 20K on the story, instead of planning. If I can be even half as productive in the next two months as I’ve been in the last two weeks, I should have a rough draft by the end of the year.