On Saturday I turned 40. Also on Saturday, the Oakland Medical Center sent me a mammo-gram.
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Recently my father's emails have the anthropological value of reminding me, or future me, of what has been stressing me out recently.
Then, in another email, he mentions that he and my mom have made a reservation at an Italian restaurant for their 44th wedding anniversary.
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Three hours ago, Mom and Dad picked me up at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, Illinois. On our way into Evanston, I sat in the backseat of their two-door Ford Focus and furiously typed everything they said into my phone.
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