I know I have to take stock in the arrogance of that kind of need to help. I know I can’t breathe through her lungs for her. I’d always prefer she take an ambulance if she needs to, instead of being driven between ERs in my jalopy. What I can do is my own work, which this week has been a lot of press about the very book she threw me a cute party for — my first, a memoir called Save Yourself, which really is the oddest title any book released right now, but a person writing this essay could have — and I can write this and I can take breaks and stay in touch with friends and get support for myself and still make sure she has everything she needs.