A lot can happen in seven days

and other bird-based musings.

Table De Contentes

1. My seven-day friendshipversary with Brian Ray

2. Substack doing testing (Welp, I never talk about this— so, you’re safe.)

3. Cancer, of course. Of course

4. bacon and eggs and eh-D-aych-D sprinkles

I created a table of contents because that felt funny. I have so many threads swirling around inside my head, and I want to make sure I don’t forget anything.

Besides, if this ends up looking anything like that table of contents, I’ll be amazed. This is now the third time I’ve started writing this, and I have three others from yesterday half-completed, plus my cult article glaring at me from the bowels of hell.

I told Rishard Allen today my writing feels clunky. And this is an unusual thing for me. I rarely write things unless in a flow. It’s the waiting for me that has me paused, wondering what exactly to say.

Saying the wrong thing rarely happens if it’s an experience that is personal to me. I’m aware as an adult that my words have an impact, and if they land in a way that has someone say, “Hey, no, that actually cut.” I will stand inside of that and reflect and apologize if it was my words that caused harm.

I’m also no longer the kind of person who feels guilty for writing like this. This is how I write. In somewhat jarring language that takes you on the internal rollercoaster I live inside of when things aren’t exactly “smooth”.

Fuck! My toaster! brb.

I’m making bacon and eggs because —

OH MY GOD, A DOVE! I love doves—

Okay. Settle (I LOVE SPRING)… I’m making bacon and eggs because yesterday, my nervous-inkling became the reality that I have cancer. And I’m telling people. Because I think it’s important. I believe honesty is really important, even if it lands in a strange way or makes people uncomfortable.

For example, my neighbour congratulated me this morning. Then, when I told her it was cancer, she and I burst out laughing. She wrote me later:

She is the loveliest. We’ll be getting high together next weekend to celebrate my cancer, my lice being gone, and hopefully my separation being nearly complete.
A three-fer.

I’ll be the first person to be glad to feel like a fool if this ends up being nothing. And since it’s April Fool’s Day, it seems the most fitting. However, I’m not arrogant either. My grandpa died from cancer, although he did live until 93, when he learned his entire slender frame was riddled with it, and he decided “that’s enough” and perished. Started as melanoma, spread. He was riding his bike up until seven days before. A lot can happen in seven days. A lot can change.

I don’t smoke, and I barely drink. I’ve always been intensely attuned to my body, except for the last 4.5 years. After my daughter, I had to make a decision: be a half-assed mom or a half-assed person. I chose the latter to the detriment of my health. I would’ve gotten this melanoma, regardless. Living inside an environment where you’re unseen, then experiencing a sudden death and a pandemic, leaves some visible scars. The internal scars, the ones that appear invisible, are often the ones that slowly bleed out, leaving longer-lasting damage, sometimes irreparable.

I walked out of my marriage with no money and two known conditions:

I was born with a rare mitochondrial disease called CPEO. It was discovered while I was pregnant, when they test you post-pregnancy to make sure you didn’t just get knocked up by a relative. Genetic testing is the proper term for it. I like to ask in genuine delight how often secret cousins have children. And then squeal and also feel horror at “it’s more common than you’d think.” Oh god, no. (BTW, not my case. Some luck.)

For me, finding out I had CPEO was just another drop in the bucket.

Then, when I was drowning in motherhood and a job that had made my hair fall out and my teeth ache, I found out my vision wasn’t just “funny”; my CPEO had become symptomatic, which includes progressive double-vision. The vertigo hasn’t happened in years, but the double-vision is hard. I can’t look at people directly.

My husband thought I was being snarky, tilting my head at him while he was talking. No, dude, I’m trying to look at you without seeing four of your piercing blue judgey eyes. Defending my disability to your skeptical mind is just the cherry on top of our relational shit sundae.

He asked this morning about my appointment tomorrow, “Do you want someone with you?”

Yes, I do, but I don’t want him. My friends here are all busy. So I will go. I’ll talk to Brian Ray of Sunshine and David C. Roberson, and anyone else willing to listen to me ramble or be silly with.

I might have to check out the beaks on some birds just to keep my mind together. EH, DAVID?!?!

I call this sport: sexually harassing birds on Instagram. Algorithms love me. I also tag random DJs to see if they can hang. lol

There was something I thought of before this duck’s red eyes started peering into my soul, and I really wish I could remember. It brought this writing to a nice conclusion. Maybe it will come back, or maybe it won’t.

So let me think about one last thing: what might be sitting beneath the surface that I don’t want to say aloud.

I think expressing our fear matters. It’s one of the most beautiful and humbling parts of being a human being. I thought I’d touched death as closely as I would in 2024 when my mother-in-law passed suddenly. Watching her disappear in two days was an unreality I still can’t fully wrap my head around. The impact of it will be forever held in the hearts of everyone who holds her.

It’s why I don’t take it lightly how quickly things can turn from “this is forever” to over. Forever isn’t real. That truth doesn’t make you a cynic. Cynicism says, “it’s over and never mattered”. I believe it matters, and to make every moment count, even the quiet, even the uncertainty, and especially the fear.

If I’m sick-sick, I’ve decided to travel. I’ve decided to be as loud as possible for as long as I can.

And if I’m not, I’ve decided to travel. I’ve decided to be as loud as possible until I die.

I’m finally free of the weight and the restrictions that I held as truths to keep me tied down.

Now I make breakfast, watch doves, and check out the beaks of any bird who happens to fly by my window. You included, dear reader.

So if so much can change in seven days, I wonder what next Wednesday will look like. Wednesdays are magical, beyond being hump day, my favourite day of the week. For me, they feel like a new moon. A fresh start. A new beginning. And something magical ALWAYS happens on Wednesdays.

Today, it was this: I felt my daughter getting upset as I rushed about this morning. I was thinking about tomorrow, the removal, wanting to sleep, being so tired, all of it. And I looked at her little face, dressed up as Anna, hair braided for da lice, and I caught my reflection momentarily inside that little face. I paused, came to her level, and just held her hands. I shook my head, lice spraying violently across the room, splattering her. (jk. I hope.) And I said:

We’re in no rush. There’s nowhere to be. It’s just us going at our own pace. I love you. I’m sorry. Can you show me what speed feels good for you right now?
I’m not going anywhere.

And I mean that. It’s a promise. All of it.

And we were late for school.

And who fucking cares?

Presence over performance… every fucking minute, of every fucking day of the rest of my life. It’s my promise.

Rishard, you were right, “some of the best things start off clunky”. Thank you.

xoxo