It goes something like this…
Your head hurts. Correction– its killing you. Trobbing pain, over your right temple and shooting to the eye. Its making your morning cup of coffee feel like a chore. The sheer prospect of suffering with this thing for the rest of the day is bringing on a serious depression, and its not even 8AM yet.
Prior to taking any analgesics, you do what any self-respecting, independent young professional would do: whine.
She turns her bald head to you, facial features chisled from her recent weight loss. She is nauseated from her recent chemotherapy but trying to choke down breakfast anyway. “Yes, honey?”
“I… uh… nevermind.”
After a lifetime of complaining to Mom about innane little problems that generally self-resolve within an hour, I’m not always sure what to do. I could whine to her, and feel like an ass. I could not whine, and feel I’m somehow being disingenuous. Plus, I’d miss out on the satisfaction of voicing a problem to Mom and getting soothed with a honeyed tone reserved just for her child– even if she happens to be well into adulthood.
Thanks a lot, cancer!