Broken Hearts

Here it is, the dreaded post that I vowed not to write, the excuse post, the why I haven't written in a long time post, the lazy me, why-am-I-such-a-pathetic-poster-post, the when-I-can't-think-of-what-to-write, write-about-why-I'm-not-writing-post. It happens sometimes, not when nothing is going on, but frequently when too much is going on and trying to put words to it all seems like such a sham and such a bother. Father dying, weather changing, daughter getting ready to go off to college, chemo pending for Nancy, stuck in my writing, Helen's mother dying, every conversation I have carrying a weight that sits on my heart like an elephant.

Best to post pictures. I'm researching a novel about a teenage girl waiting for a heart transplant. The wonderful social worker at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital has given me such access to kids and to her own formidable experiences. Last week, I joined three children post-transplant as they got to hold their old, removed hearts in their hands.
I put on purple gloves as the pathologist placed Juan's former heart in my palms. It felt like a rubber ball. It looked like something my grandmother might have tossed into a stock pot.

I'm glad I have a long time to think about this experience, to try and understand what my characters will make of it.