You undoubtedly recognize my last name, but maybe not my first. Even though I was the one born in this town, Erica’s social star quickly eclipsed mine – not that it was much of a task for her supernova. Don’t worry, I won’t get mad if you call me Mister Erica.
The wobble in my voice is new. I sound shaky, frail. I have never heard this sound out of my mouth before. Does Beyoncé ever wake up like this?
Updating my will feels solid and secure – like good shoes in the snow.
While this earthly vessel is physically compromised – okay, okay, so is my humor – I still dwell in the “can-” part of cancer.
When you splice a sudden onset fever with a heap of other health challenges, it spells, in the immortal words of Scooby Doo: “Ruh-roh!”
How furious was I? Well, what’s hotter than fire? Try 250,000F of sheer unadulterated rage nebula. And all pinned on my husband.
I make champion eater Sonya “the Black Widow” Thomas look like she’s picking at her plate. I’m also chewing away because I’m eating my feelings: My beloved neurosurgeon has Elvised. Left the building. Gone. Totally out of the blue.
All kinds of fun happening like steroids, my own addled-ness, with things like “How do I dial this number correctly, unlike the first seven times?” and resorting to asking the phone “When are you opening, Crazy Bowlz?
I used to numb the area with a spray that is now known to compromise healthy skin tissue, then various topical meds that never worked for me; then I tried ice, but by the time everything got set up for the draw, it was more hassle than it was worth. So now I go commando and just suck it up.
When is boring preferable to interesting? Cancer appointments. No one wants to be the “interesting” patient.