My sister went to the emergency room yesterday for a staph infection. She had a mosquito bite on her stomach that became infected and grew to three or four inches in diameter.

At the hospital, they cleaned it out and bandaged her up. Afterwards, she and I argued over whether this constituted surgery. I said that a non-invasive procedure wasn't surgery, and she said, "Like hell it wasn't invasive!"

I used this opportunity to remind her that she never had cancer, despite the fact that she had precancerous cells removed from her cervix. (She participated in a Walk for a Cure marathon as a "cancer survivor," which is beyond embarrassing.) She said that she didn't want to argue with me about it.

Anyway, she was over at my parents' house, which is where her two kids have been living, when Harrison needed to have his diaper changed. My dad wasn't home, and my mom was busy cleaning up the kitchen after supper and entertaining Mattie. I told my sister to change her son's diaper.

This caused her to fly into a rage about how she wasn't supposed to bend over because of the big open wound on her stomach. I have no idea if this is true, but it seemed like a lame excuse when, minutes earlier, she asked if I would go shopping with her and surely trying on clothes would require some bending over and potential chafing of her sore (it's covered with gauze, so it isn't as though she'd be getting pus or blood or whatever on the clothes, but that still seems pretty gross, huh?).

Anyway, she cussed and screamed in front of poor little Harrison, who obviously didn't know why mommy was behaving like that.

Later, she fell asleep on the couch and I told Mattie not to wake Mount Mommy or else she would erupt.

On Tuesday, my sister took me out to dinner and we had a wonderful time. It was so sweet of her, because she used a work bonus that she's been saving for at least half a year to take me to the Country Club, where she works. I was really touched that she treated me when she could have invited anyone--my parents, her new boyfriend--anyone.

But then she behaves like that in front of her kids and I'm reminded of how much growing up she needs to do. Staph infection or not, she's barely seen them at all while I've been here and that's pretty much the status quo when I'm not around.

I'm so glad I don't live here.

Late last week, the divorce became final. No, not my divorce, you vultures! My sister's.

Sara filed for divorce from her husband Jeremiah about a month ago when the news of his termination at work and his subsequent lie about it were the final straws on the back of a camel that was already supporting the weight of his alcohol problem and physical abuse of her while she was pregnant.

About a month ago, Jeremiah told my parents that there were going to be some layoffs at his place of employment. I don't know if this is true or if Jeremiah knew that he was about to be fired and was cunning enough to plant the seeds for a cover-up. Either way, he was fired and soon began telling everyone--including his wife--that he was laid off and was nothing but a victim in the tale of how he'd come to be unemployed.

This might have worked, except that he caused such a spectacle when he was fired--screaming and cursing at his bosses--that he gave his coworkers a reason to talk about it. One of his coworkers sent a text message to his girlfriend as the huge argument was taking place, and she received that message while she was at work...with my dad.

Quincy is a very small town.

A day or two later, Jeremiah and Sara showed up at my parents' house for dinner, and he told my dad that he had been laid off from his job. My dad didn't let on that he knew otherwise.

But after dinner, my mom told Sara privately what had happened and she was understandably hurt and angry.

I talked on the phone to Sara shortly after all of this happened, and she confessed that she wanted to get a divorce, but, "I look at mom and dad and grandma and grandpa, and they've been married for so long. I don't want to be the one who gets a divorce."

I told her that staying married for the sole sake of avoiding the stigma of a divorce was silly and that she shouldn't care what other people think of her. Besides, anyone who condemns her for divorcing the man who lied to her about something as important as his job and who beat her when she was pregnant has some serious issues of their own.

In other news, Leon is in Tennessee this week, visiting his family. He flew into Knoxville, which is halfway between his hometown of Johnson City and Nashville, where his mom has been receiving her cancer treatments. When I last talked to him, he didn't know if he'd be spending his time in Johnson City or Nashville, but he did know that his mom's cancer didn't go away when she was injected with her brother David's stem cells several months ago--a process that, as I understood it, had a 20% chance of curing her, a 20% chance of killing her, and a 60% chance of sending the cancer into remission. But none of these things happened, and she's set to undergo the entire process all over again.

I obviously hope that she beats it this time around and that she is well enough to attend her daughter Ruth's wedding in August. My prediction is that she will have to wear a surgical mask to the nuptials, just as she had to when we went wedding gown shopping for Ruth during the Thanksgiving holiday. Those chirpy David's Bridal employees had never seen anything like it.

This is getting a bit long, but I must mention that my Aunt Val was in the hospital recently, having lots of tests done. Last I heard, she didn't have the results back, but I'm confident that she's going to learn that she's suffering from the same degenerative liver and kidney diseases that my grandpa has. It's sort of like looking into the future and seeing what's going to happen to me if I don't take better care of my body.

As for my grandpa, he's showing the early signs of Alzheimer's in addition to his own liver and kidney problems.

And this is the news from the States. But Prague is great. Wish you were here!

Last week, I emailed most of my family about our plans at Christmas, specifically, what I should buy as gifts. No one responded.

Yesterday, when I was getting my makeup done at the Clinique counter in Macy's, Leon called to tell me that there was some bad news and that I'd want to call my parents. The news was that my grandpa was in the hospital. Again.

I called my mom's cell phone and she was at the hospital. I asked her what had happened, and she hesitated, telling me that she didn't want to trouble me before I went to Europe. I pressed her, though, and she said, "I think when you are home at Christmas, you're going to be surprised by how different he is."

She continued, telling me that my grandpa has been very disoriented, very confused. She told me that he gets up at night and wanders around. Recently, my grandma woke up in the middle of the night and didn't know where he was. She eventually found him in the bathroom closet, unable to get out, and with cuts on his head. He was looking for aftershave.

"He's not Dad anymore," my mom said, and I knew what she meant. "Last night, it was so bad that I had to go over and get one of the kids." (You may remember that my parents and grandparents are collectively raising my sister's two children.)

I asked her if she thought he'd still be "around" (what a clever euphemism) at Christmas. She paused before saying, "I think so."

Leon and I talked when I got home from Macy's. We talked about my grandpa, about my parents, about his mom and her cancer. We talked about his uncle's girlfriend who just died and we talked about the fate of my niece and nephew.

"We're lucky," I said, "that we don't have to deal with these things or worry about these things. We're so wrapped up in our own world."

And I thought about my Christmas present inquiry and how I was getting my makeup done when I received the call. I even thought about how I called my mom on Saturday evening, talking to her mere hours before she would have to go help her mother corral two small children and her disoriented father.

We're very lucky, Leon and I. We're still young, and being in California removes us from all of the problems that our families face every day. With the holidays coming, though, we're going to have a nice hard look at reality.

My mother-in-law is going to have her stem cell transplant at some point during the next month, as part of her cancer treatment. She e-mailed me this morning to ask if there is a book of poetry that I could recommend for this time.

I'm not sure if she wants the poems to read en route to the treatment (it will require a trip across Tennessee) or to read during the treatment, but I think it's a fair assumption that she wants something uplifting and inspirational.

I'm more of a Sylvia Plath, Jorie Graham girl, so I really don't know what to suggest. I don't want to suggest nothing because that sounds so dismissive and unsupportive. So do you know of anything she might like?

You should probably be aware that she is Jewish, so no Christian prayer stuff and it can't merely be humorous--it has to have more depth than that--because she isn't fond of light, silly comedy.

Leon and I are flying to Seattle this weekend to meet up with his parents, Marty and Ellen. Ellen starts her cancer treatment on Friday, though, so we don't know if she'll be up for the drive from Montana. I suspect the trip will go according to plan, but Leon's parents are making some accomodations for us in case they don't show.

Ellen had a blood test yesterday, and the results showed that the cancer is progressing. There has been a 25% increase of M protein cells in her blood--the protein that is one of the main causes of her cancer and that leads to kidney damage. The 25% increase has occurred within the last month.

I don't know what kind of treatment she is going to start on Friday, but I do know that she wanted to do her treatment with the University of Arkansas hospital. They're doing the nation's leading research in multiple myeloma treatments. But this hospital is not covered by Ellen's insurance. When she came to terms with not being able to have her chosen form of therapy and went to speak with her doctor about what she chosen instead, even her doctor said that she really ought to go to Arkansas instead of having one of the more conventional methods. But it would be $23,000 to get that second opinion.

Anyway, we leave for Seattle Friday evening.

Bombshell of the year: Leon's mom has cancer.

And it sounds like it's fairly advanced. (But we really don't know much at this point.) Please send Leon positive thoughts.

I? Am a weepy mess. But this isn't about me, so please don't feel sorry for me.

But I feel really guilty that I haven't emailed her back in nearly a month and know it would look really transparent if I wrote back now. Not that she would care; she'd just be pleased to receive the letter, I think.

I just feel awful, and everyone seems surprised that I'm so upset. But not seeing eye-to-eye with my mother-in-law on silly issues (like what day my family opens Christmas presents) is not the same as me wishing her ill. But again? Not about me.

Just send Leon some love.

I talked to Sara Wednesday night and helped her write a letter about Relay for Life, this 12-hour walk she's doing to help raise money for cancer research.

"You're walking for 12 hours?" I asked.

"No, it's a relay. I'm on a team, so I only have to do two legs: the first leg and the survivor leg," she said.

"The 'survivor leg?' Like, for fans of 'Survivor?'"

Her voice got quiet. "Kate, you know I had cancer, right?"

"What? You didn't have cancer!"

"Yes, I did. I had cancer cells removed."

"Those were precancerous cells. It means you could've developed cancer. You didn't have cancer, Sara!"

"Um, I think I would know what the doctor said." And I bit my tongue.

My sister did not have cancer, and she's going to be walking this courageous lap around a stadium as people cheer for cancer survivors. She'll probably have her picture on the front page of the newspaper as a brave, strong woman. I just hope the real survivors don't beat her with sticks for being an imposter.

How freakin' embarrassing.