The first day of school is imminent: my resident grandson is entering his high school sophomore year. If I were a muskrat my grandchildren would be virtually uncountable (assuming muskrats can enumerate). Mother muskrats produce approximately six babies twice per year. Even given the dangers of the woodland, brush and stream, that means a lot of progeny! Their cozy burrows--reached like beaver dens from underwater portals--must get very crowded, requiring early emancipation for sheer survival's sake.

I, on the other hand, have slacked off with only three children and five grandchildren, the youngest mentioned above. Each of them is precious beyond speaking. When I think of the various and varied activities undertaken these seventy years, my children and grandchildren are paramount. Whether I see or hear or hold or even know them is irrelevant. The cord that binds me to each of them is made up of too many strands to ever break. They are irrevocably part of me.

Cancer (the illness) has become a societal catch-word for mortality. Yeah, yeah, we're all mortal, and so what. But cancer...now there's some serious mortality! It's a word, when applied to oneself, that puts muscle into the phrase "live each day as if it were your last." Even if it's clear that the cancer in your own person is not going to be your particular cause of death. In that sense, cancer is indeed a gift. "Living in the moment" (with appropriate regard for paying the light bill, showing up for your chemotherapy, etc.) is certainly preferable to worrying the past and second-guessing the future.

This moment: warm smile thinking of progeny, friends, relations, and the hundreds of people who have tenderly shared their lives with me in my therapy office.

Next moment: oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar. Num.