Breathing fire

I've been trying to figure out why they call it Dragon.

I'm referring to Dragon NaturallySpeaking, a new program I'm trying to learn to work with. I'm using it right now to dictate the words to this blog entry. It feels a little weird.

I'd really like to write my memoirs. Or something remotely resembling memoirs; I guess you can't have memoirs without a memory. And memory is something I'm very short on these days.

I'm sure 25 years of drinking didn't help me, but what finally did the deed was a combination of menopause, chemo, and the complete elimination of every molecule of estrogen in my body by the medication Arimidex. Oh, well. What we humans will do just to stay alive.

I remember my brother Jim asking me once, did I remember the time Dad chased us around with knives? I said no, I must have been too young. He said, "No, it was one weekend I came home on leave. Don't you remember I had to bang on the windows to get you to open the front door?" I was at least twelve or thirteen when my brother was in the service. And yet I have no recollection whatsoever of the experience.

I'd love to be able to describe the years when my children were little; it would probably be at least a little cathartic. But I'd have to remember them to do that--the years, not my children. The good news, I guess, is that my defenses are pretty strong.

The past couple of months have been absolutely wonderful for me. I've been able to reconnect with my children, one of the things I really wanted to be able to do before I die. I honestly didn't think it was possible. And yet it's happened. I wish I could freeze this moment in time, just to make sure no rift happens in the future. But I can't. I just have to go with the flow.

And try to make them believe that I love them, that I've always loved them.

Words are like fire. Maybe that's what the dragon is all about.