I hate clock-time. I love life-time.
Welcome to my sacred salon, demise den, parting parlor… basically my room to die in at home
“Dear Erica,” you write. “You seem to be doing so much, and really really really living life to the fullest. How do you feel most of the time? What is the sick/okay/good ratio? How much of your time is spent tending to the cancer versus being able to carry on with life?”
“You could increase your weights, you know,” Gayle the trainer points out. I flash back to six months ago, when I returned to the gym, suitably recovered from radiation and steroids. I felt fine, but I was shocked that I couldn’t budge the leg-lift machine.
Inspiration by mastication
Waking up after surgery.
One of my all-time favorite quotes is: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it. Because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.” What makes you come alive? Who are you? What change do you see yourself walking toward right now? Are you heading somewhere you actually want to go?
Erica’s old anger patterns as directed at my children and husband, or, per Stephen King, “Some werewolves are hairy on the inside.”
How do you imagine what happens to your remains: a burial on land? Burial at sea? Donation to science? Orbiting in a Tesla convertible?
This gadolinium glimpse inside my brain shows me that my cerebral edema swirl (brain swelling) looks like a graceful design on my latte. That’s never come up in my reports before!