Ya know, I whine a lot. Especially here, but not just here. I’m a whiner. Why? I whine when things don’t go my way, I bitch and moan about things I don’t agree with. I fret over whether I’ve done or said the right thing, then I complain if the results aren’t what I like.

I’m sorry, I’ll try to do better, but this is me. I use this as an outlet, a pressure valve, I rant here so I don’t accidentally go off yelling at my boss or a co-worker, or my kids. I screamed at a truck that cut me off in traffic today (when you’re in a Civic, you get used to trucks just grabbing the right of way, whether or not it’s theirs, but you never enjoy the sensation of impending doom) and my daughter said from the back seat: “that’s not nice, daddy.”

A fellow blogger is hurting right now. His wife is in a hospital, fighting for her life. It is eerie similar to something we just went through a few weeks ago, but of course I have no way of knowing if it’s even the same sort of thing. Medicine is not my strong suit.

But he isn’t complaining, or whining. He has shared his love for her, and for his family, in many ways. He is carrying on in the face of one of the scariest things there is. I don’t have a right to complain, when it comes down to it. I wish there was something I could do to help.