Rollercoaster of puke filled love

Life: An explosively circular cycle of emotionally puke filled insanity. Life: an emotionally filled set of circumstances laden with love and connections. 

When you’re on the rollercoaster of life puke your mind tells you that you’re alone. No one knows what you’re feeling. They can’t associate the ache in your soul. They don’t understand how deep the pain resides. And why should they? Your mind tells you it’s ok to suffer in separateness. That you shouldn’t share your misery and pain. It’s not their problem and it’s too hurtful to explain. But one day life shows up with a deck of cards offering connection and love. Offering the remembrance of relationships that you have built out of love and support. People who bring the love, people who bring the cooperation of familiarity that you have made through out the years. You don’t have to explain your pain. They aren’t here to solve your shit stained puzzle of circumstance. They show up to look you in the eye and squeeze you so tightly that you can feel the transfer of their loving energy. “You look so beautiful Danielle. You look so good,” they say with sincerity. “Thank you,” I reply without truly considering their words. They sit on the surface like a duck wading in the water. I’m not letting them in. I can feel that. “You’re doing so good. I always knew you had it in you,” another person says. Their words are chipping away at my brick wall, cracking the exterior. “To be going through everything, holding your head up high, you are doing great.” The wall starts crumbling, dust falling to the ground, pieces of my barricaded emotions are deteriorating. “I don’t want you to explain anything or discuss the details, we see you, we love you.”

 I exhale. 

Yes. The words fill me with light. I don’t have to be constantly reminiscing or reiterating the script of my existence. I don’t have to explain the forced lesson of acceptance when I learned that my husband is with another. I don’t have to express my continued acknowledgement of my cut, ripped and replaced body. All I have to do is feel the love. Feel the connection of energy filled with utter affection and support. 

Recently after looking at my work torn hands I decided I needed reinforcement so I meandered myself to a manicurist. He was an older Asian man. He held my hands like a father. He looked at me gently and smiled. Oddly enough I let it in. I could feel his concern as he began the process of attempted repair. After a minute he gently ran his finger over the long scar on my right hand. He touched the entirety of it. The full length. So gently and with so much care.

“What happened?” He asked with a heartfelt wonder. “I broke my hand,” I replied matter of factly. “How?!” He asked his left hand cradling mine with his right pressed firmly on top. “I was receiving chemo and I banged it on a door frame. Because my bones were weak it shattered.” He didn’t reply but stared seemingly shocked. “When did this happen?” “In May,” I whispered. “Not this May?!” He said in disbelief. “Yeah,” I replied. It happened this May.” He put his head down somberly and gave my hand one last warm sandwiched touch before continuing the task at hand (no pun intended). 

His touch made me emotional. What the fuck? Why am I tearing up as I sit in a semi Italian based themed nail salon operated by Vietnamese staff? And then I realized… No one has ever touched my scar. 

His loving energy and attentiveness was the first I have felt toward my injured hand. I apologized to my hand for not giving it the healing love it deserved. I haven’t emphasized the significance of my broken hand. It has seemingly fallen through the cracks of the puke filled rollercoaster.

I’m having surgery on Tuesday to repair a screw that is backing out. My surgeon is going to open it up, screw that bad boy back into place, cheeky little fucker, and smooth out the incision. I have a second chance to show my wound some love. I promise to be here for you right hand. Let’s heal properly this time.

Make way

I woke up at 4 am and organized my bathroom. My head is full of heaviness that transfers to my body. Divorce is messy people say. I never knew what that meant. Spaghetti is messy. Glittery art projects are messy. Moving on from a situation that no longer serves you should be easy. Seamless. A done deal without sabotage, deceit or cruelty. It should be done respectfully without the entanglement of a third party. But people suck. 

I recently went on a solo weekend trip to Clearwater Florida. Just me and my lonesome. I’ve always been a solitary person, only child remember? But I’ve come to realize that I’ve been a solidarity person out of insecurity. I’ve always chosen to hide, go unnoticed, fly under the radar so not to cause any disturbances in the life swirling around me. Now I choose to be alone because I enjoy my company. I choose to spend time unattended as a thank you to myself. I wanted three days of sunshine. Three days of waking up whenever I wanted to, go to bed at 8:30, to order room service but only get dessert for 2/3 meals. 

I had several experiences during my self discovery mission. I love being able to take notice of certain occurrences and chuckle at their serendipitous impact. 

Upon arrival, my Uber driver questioned what I was doing there alone. Then came the typical questions of spousal arrangement, children and from where I was traveling.

I told my driver a small fraction of information regarding my “situation.” At times it feels as if I’m not telling the truth when I retell my “story.” It feELs like I’m embellishing. Making up some dramatic narrative that I’m working out for my latest scandalous fiction novel that I plan on peddling to local CVS’s. But alas no.

Upon reaching the hotel my driver got out of the car, took my suitcase out of the trunk and looked at me like a father would at his daughter. He had compassion in his eyes and concern in his frame as he stretched out his arms and said, “Would it be OK if I gave you a hug?”

I giggled and said, “Sure.” He hugged me tight while saying, “You’ll be OK. You’ll pull through this.”

Without over thinking the fact that my Uber driver was offering compassionate concern adhered with physical contact I thanked him, grabbed my bag and continued onto my destination.

It’s ironic because although odd and one would think out of place, it didn’t seem strange. I’ve received more compassion, sympathy and empathy from strangers than those that were once thought of as a guarantee staple in my life. Although yes, dogs only forever and always, I guess not allll humans suck.

The next self realization pebble of wisdom came as I was departing. As if it was a period at the end of my self discovered sentence.

My physical appearance is that of a non symmetrical form. A bit lopsided for the time being. But because I don’t feel like it’s my permanent form, because I’ve learned how to disconnect my psyche from my physical state defining who I am, I often opt out of wearing the bewble (technical term) prosthesis. 

While traveling through security at the airport my luggage was searched and my newly purchased lotion was confiscated. DAMN ITTTTTT that was some good shit. Noting my disappointment a deliciously hulking, 6’4 beast of a man offered to personally (wink wink) walk me downstairs to the baggage claim so I could check my bag and keep my purchase.

While walking next to my newly acquainted personal airport transport I felt small yet bold. Like I should ask him to be placed in his pocket just in case. You know, for security purposes.

I decide to make the talk small, “How tall are you?” He chuckled, “I’m 6’4.” 

“Holy fuck,” I responded wholeheartedly taken a back by his answer. “That’s big. Do you like, pick stuff up and put them down just cuz you can?” Ensue more giggles and a blush, “I don’t often do that but maybe I should,” he replied.

And then came the comment heard round the world. The bombshell of atomic gut punches. “Yeah, but you’re stronger than I am,” he said with a warm smile, a slight head tilt and a glance at the sunken spot that “should” be filled. 

Enter a mixture of emotions. I didn’t know where to go with this. I wish I could have seen my face. It was probably a mix of shock, surprise, humiliation, borderline puke, peppered in with a splash of forced acceptance. Initially I thought he was referencing my newly toned shoulders as I haveeeee been doing push ups these last few days. But I quickly realized what he was referring to.

First instinct, run. Cover up. I’ve been seen, caught. YOU SOCIAL DERELICT YOU. Second instinct, laugh. Laugh? Why? Is it funny? I mean sometimes, but no, not really. Third instinct, gratitude. “Thank you,” I said locking eyes with his. They were sincere and glistening a bit.

In the end I accomplished what I had been putting out into the “world.” I put on my black tank top that day without the placement of a plastic prosthesis because this is about me. It’s about how I perceive my body. Why should I care if other people take notice of my body’s physical form. In fact, take notice. TAKE IT ALL IN FOLKS like a big glass of ice cold fucking lemonade on a hot summer day. 

This is my body. We have a relationship of love, pain, upheaval, solitude and acceptance. We went through this. We are going through this. Warrior walking. Make way. 

One Tit McGillicutty

The nurse looks me up and down as I walk myself into check in. “Well you don’t look sick enough to be here,” She says with a smile. “Let me show you to your room and get you your uniform.” She escorts me in and comes back with a star patterned Johnny. “This is a kid’s size because you’re a peanut. And it has a star pattern because you’re too cute for anything else we offer,” she says with a wink. 

Last week I developed a fever of 102. I figured it was due to a germ ladden bouncy house extravaganza which I partook in 2 days after chemo (yolo) but when I awoke the following morning with a swollen, red and throbbing right breast I knew it was something else.

I had developed a serious infection behind my breast. The radiated skin wasn’t strong enough to support the surgery and my implant needed to be removed. I required hospitalization for a few days with IV antibiotic treatment. 

Sitting in my hospital bed I close my eyes and rub my fingers over my right breast. Well the space that was my right breast. The skin is caved inward. Gone isn’t the word. It’s backwards. I can feel the bone where the soft, comfy, malleable tissue should be. I’ve never felt this bone before. It’s shocking. Jarring. 

Tears start falling. They catch me by surprise. Big, huge, wet drops soaking my cheeks and pillow. I imagine myself like Alice after eating the cake that says, “Eat me,” subsequently growing 9 feet and after discovering that she can’t fit through the doorway she begins to cry. Her massive tears forming a giant pool at her feet.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to feel it. But I wanted to. I wanted to feel my once again new body. A chapter of constant introduction to my new self that I thought was complete.

“It’s not the end of the road,” one of my surgeons reassures me. It might not be the end but it feels like the edge of a cliff. “Skin stretches and in time we will re-expand the tissue and re-insert the implant.”

I love my scars. They’ve become my medals of honor. I’ve grown to love my body. I’ve learned how to reintroduce my psyche to my ever changing physical form over and over again but this isn’t a scar. This is a concave.

This week, December 3, 2021 is my final chemo treatment. It’s no coincidence that I’m ending my treatments three weeks before Christmas. One month before the new year. Starting fresh. New beginnings. The end of several chapters. 

It’s hard to view this hour as a time for celebration now that I have another hurdle to overcome but it is. This isn’t chemo. This isn’t fighting for my life. This is reconstruction. This is the fun stuff. 

My nurse reads my chart and her eyes fill up. She leaves the room and comes back 10 minutes later. 

She kneels down and fixes my pulsating leg wraps designed to prevent blood clots. Without looking up she says, “They call you Nelly?” “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. “That was my best friend’s name,” She says as her voice cracks. “She passed away when she was 28 from breast cancer. When I saw your chart I knew that she’s here with us now. Watching over you.” She touches my knee with a warm caress. Her smile evident even with her mask on. “Thank you,” I reply. “That means so much.” She silently nods and walks out of my room.

This has never been about the destination. It has always been about the journey. Trust the process. Believe that everything happens for a reason. When life hands you lemons throw those mother fuckers back and go get a milkshake because that’s what you wanted in the first place. I’m a unicorn. A one titted McGillicuty. Who are you?

Fight for your right to ... live

8:18 am, Tommy’s birthday is August 18, I awaken from a dream crying. In my dream, Jack, my newly departed 16 year old best friend was sitting on my left hand. I could feel the weight of his body. His soft white fur grazing my hand. It was so white, whiter than it had been when he was a puppy. He was staring at me. Right into my eyes like he was transferring energy or sending a message. His fur was moving ever so slightly. Waving in a gentle breeze. He looked calm. Peaceful. Like he wanted to tell me he that loved me one last time. I didn’t say anything but I didn’t have to. I just cried. Tears streamed down my face. When I awoke I said, “I know buddy. I’m safe now, you brought me home. You did your job. Thank you.” This was my first day in Texas.  

Feel to heal

Peace

Serenity

Calm

Listen

A yellow butterfly lands on my right breast as I lay on a lounge chair by the pool. It is so close that I can see the fur above her eyes and her proboscis moving in and out in synchronized unison. In and out, in and out. Her wings open and close gently. Back and forth in a graceful rhythm. I sync my breathing with the natural eb and flow of her spirit. Open, close, in, out, back and forth. We seem to stare at each other. “Yeah,” I say out loud. “That’s the side that needs healing. Can you feel it?” Open, close, in, out, back and forth. “Thank you. Thank you for reminding me to breathe. Thank you for reminding me that it is healing. That I am healing.” And just as quickly as she approached, she departed.

The only noise here is the silence of the surroundings. The insects and the trees know the right time to start and the right time to stop. It’s a dance. A balance. An eb, a flow. A start, a stop, a pause, a go. Gently. Carefully. 

I walk barefoot around the outskirts of my cabin because it feels right. If I walk too hard or too fast, the ground reminds me to slow down. The rocks remind me to go lightly. 

Go lightly.

Open, close, in and out, back and forth.

Release Danielle. Just be. Feel the peace. Softly. Carefully. Quietly. Internally. Feel to heal.

In the middle of the summer, 4 weeks after I left my husband, 1 week after learning he was in a relationship with another woman, a friend sent me a link to apply for a trip to Dripping Springs Texas, all expenses paid, through an organization called First Descents designated for cancer fighters and survivors. What the hell, I’ll apply, no way I’ll be selected but lord alfucking mighty knows that I could use a break. How old are you? 38 What is your diagnosis? Stage 3 breast cancer. Are you currently receiving chemo? Yes. Do you have children if so how many and what are their ages? Yes, Lilah age 9, Tommy age 6. 

Like I said, no way I’m being selected but okidoki. 

And what the fuck do you know? I WAS SELECTED. 5 days, my own cabin, rock climbing, fresh country air and most importantly people that can commiserate with my condition. Moms that are clutched with concern contemplating that their children might grow up without them. Daughters that can’t process the daunting legitimacy that their parents will be forced to bury their child. And people getting a divorce while fighting for the right to live.

Texas changed me. I might be Boston learned and raised but I ascertained how to live in Texas. I looked inward and saw myself. I saw who I became during my fight and I thanked her.

I learned that I need and needed help. The reality of realizing that I actually needed help and that my mantra of “Oh I’llll be fineeeeee. I’m okkkkkk. I don’t neeeed a lightbulb I’ll just sit here in the mother fucking dark and eventually develop my other senses so I can “see” in pitch blackness” no longer held water. NO. FUCK THAT. NO.

I have, with the help of many other warm souls, dogs, my parents and my children been doing it on my own. My time in Texas forced me to realize that help is critical to survival. Yeah great I have gotten through 40 out of my 42 chemotherapy treatments relatively unscathed but that’s physical. Emotional support is just as, if not more crucial. Without emotional back rubbing you might as well buy your plot and reserve the hall for your celebration of life ceremony cuz you dead bitch. 

I have 2 chemo sessions left until freedom. 40 treatments under my belt and 2 left. A year and a half ago I had a life. Today I know what it means to live it. Let’s fucking go.

Pass the salt

Pass the Salt: Move on, forget about it, resolve, act as if you are at a dinner table and the request for your need to be met is as simple as asking someone to “pass the salt” while eating a meal. 

Don’t ask “whatttt nowwwww?” (See previously stated question in prior post) and not expect the universe to answer, “heads up bitch.”

Fueled by tequila, Marlboro cigarettes and regret I awaken with a headache and the dawdling mental digestion of doom. 

At the end of May, after feeling like I didn’t have another choice, I took the kids and went to stay with my parents.

My head was spinning. I have cancer, I’m continuing to undergo treatments until January, my husband and I are at each other’s throats constantly. I needed space. I needed to see if our marriage could be saved. I needed peace. I needed time.

On July 14^th I learned that my husband was dating another woman. And was “in love.” 

No one thinks, first ima get married and then ima get sick oh and then for the grande finale ima get divorced. Ohhhh damn 10 years, 2 babies, 1 business later you will get stage 2B breast cancer and also a divorce. Oh but bitch you’ll be FINE and live to tell the tale to others across the landddd.

DIVORCE.

The mere notion of the word makes you think. Stops you in your tracks and makes you THINK. What does it mean? How does divorce define your self worth? Does it? Should it? What if your husband of 11 years, companion of 22 starts dating a woman in the midst of your continuing effort to fight cancer? What the holy fuck am I on Dynasty!? What’s next?? If I find out Blake Carrington is my dad I’m fucking out.

Anywhooo.

EGO.

Ego man. Ego. L’eggo of my egggggo. How do you define your ego if everything you’ve considered to be “you” is no longer? What if your semblance of reality isn’t real at all? What if you are forced to reckon that you have been replaced? That there another woman with “my man.” Another woman hearing the same stories I have heard. Another woman for him to call his.

I stare back at my reflection of tear streaked cheeks darkened by mascara and think fuck man, I have eyelashes to support mascara. I might embody Angela Bassett ala Waiting to Exhale but I’d rather burn this place to the ground from the outside than let the flames in.

It hurts. It stings. It comes over me in waves and I can’t stop crying. I should be talking to my children about getting ready for school, picking out new back packs and preparing them for the next chapter of their lives, instead I’m having conversations of morality, honor, respect, devotion and dadda’s girlfriend. We, as a family, as a unit, should have been allowed the opportunity to transition into this new chapter of change with our heads held high having just returned from war knowing we are winning the battle instead of juggling an extra obstacle of debauchery. 

I shouldn’t have to teach my children about the morality and sanctity of marriage in the midst of their digestion and recoup from the past year of trauma and fear and processing that their mother has cancer. I should be allowed to focus on the opportunity to allow them a healing time process. A respite for them to process the largest change their world has ever known. 

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?? FUCK. IT.

I AM focused on my children. I AM focused on my health. I have 6 chemo treatments standing between me and the finish line. I have 1 surgery looming on the landing. I say this with baited breath … I should be done with treatments/surgeries etc by Christmas. Nearly 1.5 years of chemo, 6 weeks of radiation, 3 surgeries, a divorce and a fucking partridge and a pear tree smoking a parliament while scratching a scratchie at Dunks. 

I leave my house ready for my morning feeling disgraced. At the local market people avert their eyes. I feel as if they all know. He chose her over you. He didn’t want this life. 

I’m supposed to have someone, somebody, my person, to share my pain. To empathize. To sympathize. To rub my arm and say I’m here for you, it’ll all be ok, we’re in this together. But the truth is, I do. I have honest, genuine, authentic people (and dogs, dogs man, dogs) in my world that CARE. That are here for me when I need them the most. The tough horse pill to swallow was realizing that the person who I expected to lean on didn’t hold his post. It was a brutal truth to tackle. He just didn’t want to. He. Didn’t. Want. To. 

In our society we create paths, tunnels and crevices that we are all “supposed” to succumb to. You go this way, and I’ll go too and then we will meet in the middle because that is what we’re supposed to fucking do. But that isn’t living. Waking up, taking a deep breath, making choices that effect your overall well being, learning, that is living. I’ve spent a long time subconsciously molding an ideal of a person. An ideal that I wished to see. But the truth is, you can’t change someone. You can’t expect someone to act “accordingly” if they don’t want to. Period. End scene.

It’s real simple to say fuck you buddy. It’s real easy to chastise “her.” But at the end of the day, nah. I’m not them. I don’t want their lives, I don’t want to make the choices they have made. So if logic ensues, let go and let god. Or dog.

My mom says I’m an onion. I feel more like a drunk raccoon rummaging through receptacles until I run out of rum but she’s right. I am an onion. Every day I’m unraveling a layer revealing something that I haven’t realized resides inside myself. Every day I discover a little bit more. Under all the wraps. Peekaboo mother fucker.

At the beginning of my 37^th year I said to the universe, “I want to find out who I truly am.” It’s strange because the more I sit with my life experiences, the more I marinate in the muddy malarky of my macrocosm the more it feels right.

I am here. I am growing. I am feeling my true emotions. I’m focusing on my business and how much I love it. I’m focusing on teaching my children to love themselves. And to embrace the unknown. There is nothing to be afraid of unless you don’t try. 

Life is full of lessons. And shouldn’t it be? Feel to heal. Walk through the fire to realize it’s not about winning, it’s not about losing, it’s not about washing a rug outside at 10 pm in your nightgown and rain boots outwardly crying while 4 dogs surround you seemingly just as sad as you are. 

Live in the truth. Feel the burn. Treat people with heart and soul. Resolve, move on, marinate, cry, scream, laugh and repeat. And pass the salt. 

To flourish you must nourish

I buy myself flowers and place them on my nightstand. I like the varying colors of the pedals. Each flower is the same but unique in it’s own way. The flowers are an outward expression of nature. The outside world brought in. They force me to pause. To reflect upon their loveliness. Embrace and exist without cause. Without judgement.

My parents read my horoscope out loud every morning as a means to start my day. At first I thought it was cute and corny, now it is straight gospel and I’m addicted to its knowledge.

Love: a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, lover or friend.

Lately I’ve been reflecting on the concept of “love.” Since my diagnosis and tiresome (to put it lightly) treatments I’ve been focusing on what the idea of love means to me. What is my true dedication to the definition of love and all it entails? How do I ensure that I am allowing for the appropriate amount of love allotted for myself? Is there a chart I should be following? Some index cards I should be referencing? If I wake up every morning and tell myself “I love you” is that enough? What is love? L-O-V-E. To loveee and beeee lovedddd. An invisible and eternal force impenetrable to all things. Love - the eternal flame of excellence sought by all, conquered by few. Why are we as a society collectively taught to place a multitude of emphasis on the sentiment considered to be “love?” Loveeeeee baby loveeeee. I swoon, you swoon, we all swoon for ice swoon. But hold up. Is it fair to put such weight, such gravitas on a perception that has no realistic metric of measurement? Is it fair to not only be expected to love yourself but also to attempt the persuasion of another to offer you the amount of affection you desire? Some days, love takes a back seat to snark. Sometimes love is merely a passenger on the don’t talk to me express train to get the hell out of my way avenue. Cancer has shown me that maybe I haven’t been loving myself enough. Maybe I expect to find love in places when actually it has been right in front of me this whole time. 

2 weeks ago I banged my hand on a door frame doing my best Ferris wheel impression and broke my hand. You heard right. I BROKE MY MOTHER FUCKING HAND. I’ll tell you one thing, I DID NOT need this.  But alas here we are. Apparently chemo makes bones more brittle. Upon seeing my jacked up X-ray my doctor said,” It’s a wonder you haven’t broken more bones by now.”

I had surgery this past week. They placed 2 metal plates and 4 screws placed in my right hand. I’ve never broken a bone in my entire 37 years. But when I do something I do it right.

My dad plays the piano until midnight. I listen as he practices the same chord over and over until he feels he has perfected the sound. I love hearing my parent’s foot steps parading above me as I read in the basement below. It’s a strange and comforting feeling that I didn’t know I had missed. I love being able to see my parents every day. I love making breakfast for my dad and see him look at me out of the corner of my eye with a gaze of wonderment. Like he had never thought about my ability to be a functioning woman before this moment. I love observing my parents interact with my children and be an integral part of their daily routine. I realize that I shielded my parents from the saturation of my struggle. I didn’t want them to witness the pain and strife of cancer. Now that I am able to pause and process instead of survive I feel like I’ve been given a gift. Not only the gift of life but the ability to appreciate my parents while they are still here. And vice versa.

So now what? Whattttt nowwwww? I guess when life hands you lemons, you throw those motherfuckers back because even with a broken hand, no one is allowed to throw anything at you. And hey, I see you and I love you.

 

Uh ok good

30 days of proton radiation. 30 days of mouth sores, a constant sunburn, a swollen esophagus preventing me from swallowing food or liquid of any kind. 30 days of extreme exhaustion and debilitating dehydration. 30 days of my son counting down the days until mama didn’t have to get “red red” anymore. 30 days of relentlessness. 

But I did it. I fucking did it. 

My skin is peeling so badly that it looks like I’m bleeding. The skin underneath the thick brown elephant-esk epidermis that has emerged via treatment is cracked revealing a red raw pathway. Like a volcano splitting the land exposing the volatile lava flowing below. Certain spots itch, others ache. Best be sure you know the difference because if you inadvertently scratch a sore spot OUCHIE MAMA CALL ME A CAB IT’S TIME TO GO HOMEEEEEEE. So to speak. 

My skin oozes and leaks where you least expect it and is constantly hot to the touch. They said to expect “the area to worsen before it gets better” however if it gets much worse I’ll be able to select a different ethnicity on my census survey and possibly get a full boat scholarship to Xavier’s School for the Gifted. X-men unite. 

Because the radiation took place in close proximity to my throat it caused my esophagus to swell. Each swallow feels as if I’m choking. “But don’t worry,” my radiologist reassured, “you won’t actually choke to death it will just feel like you are every time you swallow. Yup even when you swallow saliva.” Sharp, painful, gripping asphyxiation for a solid 3 seconds. With. Every. Swallow. For. 30. Days. 

When receiving treatment I’m required to lay flat on a stretcher inside a large tunnel with my arms overhead secured in plastic holders and my hands gripping metal rods. I’m naked from the waist up. The radiologist technicians are kind and professional. They flit around like butterflies, yelling out confirmation numbers to each other ensuring that my body is in the correct position. My chin is held in place with a strap so my head stays completely still during treatment. The enormous tunnel creaks and moves up and down ever so slightly. Just enough to feel like I’m preparing for take off or enjoy an amusement park ride without the amusement. 

Green, yellow and red lasers crisscross my body attempting to ensure the exact point of contact. “We got it” the tech says, “Green light, we’ll be back.” For the first few treatments I didn’t know what that meant. “Green light we got it?” Are they drag racing? “We’ll be back?” How long will you be gone for? Should I stay here? I never know what to say in return. I can’t see them or move my body to wave goodbye. “Uh ok good.” Is all I can muster. “Uh ok good.” 

The technicians leave the room as the large microscope type device slowly inches towards my face. With my hands secured above my head and my chin fashioned tightly in place I have no choice but to watch out of my peripheral vision as the machine creeps downward. I feel vulnerable and powerless. 

Vulnerable and powerless. At the whim of this enormous radioactive machine promising to provide me a few more years of living. 

The radiation lasts about 2-3 minutes. After the set up process and radiating I’m tits up and exposed for about 20 minutes. 

During the last week of crisping me bewbs the radiologist enthusiastically proclaimed, “You’re in your boost!”  A secret that I’ve succumbed to during my medical adventure is I usually don’t know what they’re talking about so I repeat what they say in the hopes that it will jar something loose in the comprehension department.

“I’m in my boost” I skeptically say out loud. I’m still not entirely sure why they call the last week of radiation “boost week” except knowing that my radiating days were numbered sure as fuck gave me a boost. 

It’s spring time in Boston. A time of revival, rebirth, regrowth and resurgence after a long, cold winter. The trees are awakening. The birds are singing. I’ve always felt that we are all connected. The sun, the sky, the trees, the sand, dogs, humans. We are one and the same.

My skin is shedding, revealing a renewed layer underneath.  Like spring I feel a resurgence, a rebirth if you have it. The end of radiation truly feels like a milestone. A win that I needed. I have one surgery and 12 chemo treatments to go. “To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose.” As always, but especially now I thank dog for another turn in this game. Check and mate.