Notes to Matt and Becca

Becca:

That's interesting about Judge Alex and Carlo being the same age. I'm trying to imagine the sound of tongue-tied Ebglish with a heavy Italian accent.

I hope your liver continues to do well. In a situation such as yours, it is probably nice to have at least one internal organ that is doing what it is supposed to do.

Matt:
I'll post a reponse tomorrow to the latest story. It, too, was very thought-provoking.

My dad said he doesn't pick his research areas but if the people who do ever refer him to a leukemia or lymphoma cluster in the U. K., he'll be there and he'll take you up on your offer. We've been to the Brisish Isles because my mom still has relatives in Ireland. We spent most of our time there in Ireland, but we toured England, Scotland, and Wales as well.

Parasailing was a mind-boggling multi-sensory experience. Heights aren't really an issue for me. I was a gymnast in a former life -- until I was nine and got busted for doing gymnastic stunts on the highest part of our two-story roof. My confidence probably exceeds my level of skill and motor coordination, but so far it hasn't been a problem, and parasailing isn't one of those activities where motor skill plays a very large role. My dad said in about a year my leg should be sufficiently healed to parasail safely, and I may gain a little weight by then. It would probably be safer if my mom and I went up together, because she only weighs between 90 and 95, so between the two of us, we'd be a safe weight, but my mom thinks it's like one of those amusement park rides where one of the riders can turn a wheel or pull a lever to make it go faster or spin, and that I would do that either to make it more fun for myself or to scare her. I've tried to tell her that there isn't anything I could do to alter her experience, but once she gets something in her head, it's hard to convince her of anything to the contrary. My mom is not much of a thrill seeker.

Thanksgiving was nice. We ordered a meal from a restaurant and carried it onto the beach for our Thanksgiving dinner. It wasn't exactly the Pilgrims and Native Americans at Plymouth Colony, but then, if you research history, the way the kindergartners do their Thanksgiving Feasts with Pilgrims on one side of a table and Native Americans on the other isn't all that authentic to our historical roots, either.

My family went back home very early this morning. I'm going home for my birthday Thursday, so I decided I really, really wanted to just go back with them today. I had my mom convinced of the efficacy of my plan, but my dad said I needed to stay. I didn't throw a tantrum or anything that dramatic, but I was just a bit teary-eyed when my dad and I returned to my wing so that he could sign me in. Who of course had to be standing right at the desk when I was buzzed through the door all weepy? Of course it was the totally hot psychological intern. My dad had to go through the entire story of why I was upset (I come by it naturally, you see), and I felt like dying. I've only cried in front of other people three times in the past five years, and of course one of them had to be in front of the hot intern. Then he had to put his arm around me, which was fine under better circumstances, but not when I was sniffling because I didn't get to go home with my parents.

Everything is fine now. We had a ping pong tournament, which didn't take as long as it was supposed to. Then we had another one in which we had to play with our non-dominant hands.

I only have three more days as a sixteen-year-old after today.