My girl’s father had his surgery. It was the “belly” surgery to remove the cancer there, not the spot on his cheek. It turns out the doctor got all of the cancer on his cheek when she did the biopsy, so he doesn’t need to have the second surgery next week.

I think it’s all right if I let myself cry a little with relief. Yes, we are permanently separated, my husband and I. I cannot be with him because I can’t be what he needs. He can’t stop needing what he needs. Even though he doesn’t understand it because he knows I’m splendid, he’s just not that into me.

But he’s my good, dear forever friend, and I’m so glad things will be OK despite the inch and a half scar on his belly, despite the certainty that more little skin cancers will crop up in his future (it’s a family thing. In my family, we suspect we will die somewhat young because our parents each died at 68 – well, younger brother and I at least since we have both sets of bad genes and I have just gone off on an incoherent tangent born of relief born of fear born of love and regret and … and not regret….).

My poetry teacher sent an email telling those of us in her July 17 workshop in San Francisco that she is going forward with the weekend, that even though she has been quiet since her father’s memorial (he died June 18), she’s been writing a lot and has some excellent ideas about what she will do with us when we get there.

This decision of hers to go ahead with the retreat despite her grief is also cause for (selfish) relief.

I need this poetry retreat. If she had canceled, I would have been going on a vacation, but one without my daughter. And right now, that’s no vacation at all. This “working retreat” is perfect.

The third relief is that my daughter’s little insane gathering didn’t happen after all. She never reached Mustache Guy. Of course the plotting and planning will begin again for Sunday.

I may just have to run away from home.

But in a good way.

(reminder: this is not a blog; it’s a journal)