Instead of driving off a cliff as a bitter, washed-up 24-year-old (and a half!) ‘journalist,’ I decided to go on home to Bangs and when I arrived, I had an unopened package left for me on the counter. I’m still wondering about this mysterious ‘farm thing’ that Mae sent, but what I received instead was The Interviewer’s Handbook: A Guerrilla Guide by none other than mister jack brady.
Now I can look at the picture of the prof who told me I “was a better writer than that” when I told him I planned get hitched and start out at a suburban weekly in Columbus. Ha! Sucker. It’s a step in the right direction anyway. I have been reading the last hour, and it feels like a coveted last-minute pink slip.
I’ll let you borrow it when I’m done. Already he has suggested, in one of the less practical chapters, knocking four times loudly on the desk to end a long-winded phone interview. Priceless.
My apologies for those who have come here from her Myspace:
Doctor Hotshot has informed us that before we try scary knives, we’ll do some radiation treatment on Amanda’s bad brain artery. Pending a Cat Scan tomorow she’ll leave the hospital in Friday and in four to six weeks, she will wear a large metal halo and they’ll shoot the thing a couple of times and after three years or so, it might evaporate, as I understand it. They’ve decided to feel their way along in the process, and it could require surgery later, but for now, they’ll use the gun. We are all happy about this.
I absolutely adore my little sister.
Today I came into the hospital room and she was all alone, practicing her exercises along with a patient on the other side of the curtain in the stroke recovery ward. She told me to “shhh,” when they got to the “raise your left hand” part because she is not yet satisfied with the accuracy of her left-pointer-finger-to-the-nose trick.
She is such a little fighter. Today we shaved her legs and took her on a walk. It’s a privilege to take care of people. Especially in a hospital when they haven’t been showered in a long time, and orange sherbet or a cold rag means everything in the world in that moment. romanticized, probably. but maybe I can just be a nurse instead.
I also love that my dad will still eat my sister’s hospital dinners and my mom will yell at him. I guess I had forgotten until tonight that Johnsons are a simultaneously cold and an incredibly protective breed. Once you’re in, you’re in kinda thing. And many of you already are. When this is all over, we’ll cater a lunch in mom’s new kitchen.
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