003.
So I'm waiting for the first episode of the second season of Twin Peaks to finish buffering and my dad comes in from the living room and picks his car keys up off the curvy metal hanger thing by the door, where we keep keys and plastic grocery sacks for recycling or reusing and the dog's leash and stuff, and he says, "Hey, Julia, I'm off to the doctor's," and I say, "Didn't know you had an appointment. Which doctor?"
"Just the dermatologist. I have a little skin cancer behind my ear--"
"Wait, back up. Skin cancer? You have cancer?"
"Yeah, it's a small tumor, easily removed, very treatable. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you."
"Dad, you just told me that you have a cancerous tumor. Of course I'm worried. How long have you known about this?"
"Oh, a little while, but it isn't that serious. It really isn't serious at all."
Well, the world's just full of cancer these days, so I shouldn't be surprised; he's right, too, that it probably won't turn out to be a big problem. It's still unnerving, and it's more unnerving that he wouldn't tell me and my sister (and maybe even Mom, I don't know) about it, though I guess I can see why. People tend to freak the fuck out when they hear the word "cancer." Picturing bald chemo patients in hospital beds, even though that's a worst-case scenario rather than an inevitability, or even a typical outcome.
Returning to a previous post's subject, I was interested to find this review of Craig Thompson's Habibi, which both praises and criticizes the graphic novel's depiction of Islamic culture in what I think is a very fair, frank, thoughtful manner. It doesn't make me want to read the book any less, though it does confirm some of my fears about its content (as well as some of my hopes; the artwork is gorgeous).