This past weekend, I worked with a League of American Bicyclists’ National Coach at Yellow Bike Project to certify a new group of League Cycling Instructors, or LCIs. It was a long weekend: Friday night, a 12-hour Saturday for them (8 hours for me), and Sunday 8 AM to 5 PM for them (8 AM to 12:30 PM for me). Friday was challenging because I’m always kind of sick in the evenings. Saturday and Sunday, I was glad to start in the mornings, so I just fasted. 

As of today, it’s been 12 days since my immunotherapy treatment, and my stomach and head still aren’t quite right. I thought since I was now doing just that, I would feel fine. It was only after that that the doctor confirmed it would be like I have colitis.

Perhaps adjusting to fasting regularly will be a requirement. But I will admit to completely pigging out on Sunday after I got home! I thought: Stomach cramps, here I come! It is two days after my pig-out session, and I’m still paying for it.
​
I’ve been waiting to write something new because I really want to write something with some finality. Something like: I’m done, or I’m cured, or it’s all over, not just one part of it. Instead, it’s like a drizzle-and-wait. I’m also so self-conscious about writing. I probably shouldn’t think about it so much, as it’s likely nobody else is or would. But this weekend I did think about those who have cancer or some other health issue and don’t talk about it.

So, I thought, if you have cancer and are out there, I see you. 

I see you carefully choose your food. I see you mask how terrible you allow yourself to feel when you’re alone. I see you hit pause on that show you’ve finally sat down to watch because you’re running to the bathroom every 5 minutes. I see you considering the timing of your own mortality. Will it happen now? Will this be it? Will it happen soon?

​I see you not wanting to check your bank balance because you know you don’t have enough, and watching what you do have dwindle away is painful. I see you try to plan for whoever might have to take care of your stuff when you’re gone. I see you think about how you might lose your house and think how it isn’t fair because all you did was get sick and get treated, and isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

I see you get lonely, but at the same time not want to be around anyone because you feel terrible and might be running to the bathroom every five minutes. Besides, who wants to listen to you complain or moan and groan and then watch you have involuntary bodily evacuations?

Yesterday, a friend and I spoke of how to make a culture shift. This isn’t the first time this has come up in conversation with various friends. Over the weekend, it also came up. Some think they have solutions, and these solutions are going to work, so why aren’t we doing them? A sentiment I often feel. All you have to do is essentially hijack every general population event and talk about not littering, about being kind to cyclists, about resisting ultra-processed foods, about getting outside and cherishing nature, about saving the pollinators, about enacting smart solutions, about free medical care, about not being corrupt or corruptable, about helping our neighbors, about living up to whatever bible we say we follow, about teaching our children about all the good things together, about not being a part of the ‘banality of evil’, about adopting-not-shopping, about eating your veggies, about reducing your carbon footprint, about not being a racist, about not consuming too much alcohol, about normalising mental health, about how feminism is actually a good thing, about gender equality at the end of the day, and, finally, about safe sex. 

That’s all. 

Because otherwise we’re really just preaching to the choir when we have these health, cycling, naturalist, educational, ethics, churchy, scientific, philosophical, environmental fairs.

My friend’s family is coming over this week. Their brother just recently passed away from cancer complications, but he was a planner. The wife immediately set up a GoFundMe, which their church group immediately started funding, and they raised over $50,000. This is even though he had a substantial life insurance policy, and she will be receiving his salary for another two years. 

I spoke to my neighbor around the block, who drove himself to the hospital while having a heart attack because he didn’t want the expense of an ambulance. (I mentioned how dangerous that was for all the other drivers on the road!) The hospital ended up conducting a surgery and sent him bills totaling over $100,000. He was going to lose his house. He was a senior, a lively and feisty senor, but a senior nonetheless. How will he recover from this financial burden?

When my uncle died from cancer complications when I was a child, there was no GoFundMe. He probably had life insurance, as he was a “good provider”, but the house and bank accounts fell into probate, and my aunt, an immigrant, didn’t know what to do. Everything was frozen. This was the first time my aunt would go to a place like K-Mart. At the time, Marshall Fields was the fashionable place to go, and she couldn’t understand why my mom would go to discount shopping stores. Soon after, she would also get a job, sell her family home, and move into a condo that was much more affordable. Her church group would bring over casseroles, offer suggestions, and help guide the transition.

So, what’s the best way to create a culture shift? My atheist friend and I thought maybe we should start evangelizing and create a dirt church that is about bicycles and pro-vegetarian. Not in a dogmatic way, just to make it clear: The real “paleo” people were probably 98% vegetarian, primarily out of necessity. Now, in all our “abundance,” self-control is really what people need to harness. He thought “Bad Bicycle B*tches” would be a good name or motto. I’ll admit it was better than mine, which was something like, “Ride your bike and eat your veggies and don’t use pesticides!” Which is pretty wordy.

The real question is: What will it take? We went out, and on every screen is the FIFA game, and after people who’ve come here on vacation from other countries to watch the games are picking up the trash at the stadium. What is this culture?! Why is it that the location where my friend works had a Fourth of July celebration over the weekend, and although there were trash cans every 10 or 20 feet, the attendees could not seem to make their trash go in the cans? Why?! Why are people putting plastic bags with diapers in blue bins clearly marked “recycle”? Do they think anyone wants those to be recycled? Really. What else is in that plastic bag? 

We don’t care about a lot. Another reason, perhaps, for me not to care so much about talking about a thing that 3.5% of the population here in Texas has, about 474.6 cases per 100,000 individuals in Austin, where about 12-13% do not have health insurance, and a majority of the cases are people of color and LSES. Because maybe if we talk about it, if we talk about prevention, if we talk about the reality of these ailments, including the emotional, nutritional, and financial aspects (I mean the real real, feel me?), we can be models for change. Perhaps people will demand change.

There’s a lot of hate and anger in the world. For example, I’ll never really understand why people hate on other people riding their bikes around, but they exist. As an instructor of new adult cyclists, I’m glad I get to see the joy and experimentation and wonder - mostly about self - return to those adult faces. I love seeing someone try to figure out how to navigate balance and forward motion and muscle memory all over again, or for the first time. 

For it is true, I believe, as put by George Bernard Shaw: “We don’t stop playing because we get old; we grow old because we stop playing.” So, how can we help the motorist sitting in the AC be a tad more patient with the cyclists using their own power of propulsion out in the heat or other weather? How can our society as a whole create more equitable situations for people who fall ill without the resources? How can we further demonstrate that a thriving society on the whole benefits everyone and is more productive, not just the top 1%? I think that is proven: the happiest, wealthiest, and smartest countries have universal healthcare and education.

You can’t get louder if you’re not even talking about it. I say no to my doctors all the time. Let’s talk about it. To that grumpy motorist who told me to get in the bike lane when I was making a left turn, let’s talk about it. Until then, I guess I’ll remain ever hopeful and waiting for good news.

To visit my GoFundMe page with additional entries: https://gofund.me/b30cb8d5a

It's strange to see a photo of my grandma holding me and smiling. I don't have memories of her being happy, and I don't even remember the sound of her voice. It makes me happy to see her smiling and to think of her life and what made her, her. I don't really know if she ever worked or what she did if she did. I don't know how she and my grandfather met. I spent a little more time with my grandpa, but not by much. I remember my grandmother's funeral, sort of. I think I was eight when she passed. My uncle took me to visit grandpa in Florida once. We went with his step-daughter. Grandpa liked to watch soap operas and go to McDonald's for watery coffee and meet with his old timer friends to catch up on gossip. I wonder if they liked to watch Days of Our Lives and General Hospital, also. Grandpa kept a fruit bowl on his coffee table at his Florida mobile home. My step-cousin ate all of the fruit one day, mostly consisting of bananas. Grandpa was quick to let me know this was why she was so fat and that she was a spoiled brat. 

So, in my last post, I tried being cheery and, check, that’s done. Did that. My last entry will likely be my only attempt at trying to feign a good mood and cheerful disposition, for it is an empty and bankrupt existence that I toil with. I hear no words. I feel no feelings. All of the dopamine bursts are transactional, sans a few exchanges with friends and my dogs and family that keep me going, I guess. I can come alive with distraction. It happens, and then it’s over, and the emptiness returns like a void I rest in as I hope for no more distractions.

Yesterday, as I lay in bed not wanting to get up, I felt what was like a chisel cracking my skull. My head, with a sharp pain, just split. I reached for my ibuprofen and took two. I lay back down. I don’t want the sun to come up and the world to be bright out. It’s raining, and I like the sound, the cool breeze, and the dim light. I hope it rains forever. 

Still, I know I have so much to do, but all ambition has left me, and I don’t feel much of anything. I have moments of awakeness and times when I’m asleep. I prefer the times I’m asleep, frankly. I don’t even care that “awakeness” isn’t a word. Or, wasn’t a word because it is now. In my grumpy lexicon, at least. 

There’s not much worse than needing to rewrite an update that was accidentally lost.

I opened a Pages document and stared at it for about an hour before my sister-in-law called for a rousing chat that I enjoyed very much! She was on her way back from Plaquemine, Louisiana, where she was counting and taking artifacts and other data from the birds, Purple Martins, I believe, as part of her job in coastal ecology in Louisiana. She is such a wonderful artist, writer, and thoughtful human. I’m so grateful to have her in my life!

Back to Monday. The day of One Arm. Hopefully this one will be somewhat entertaining or cheerful via some of the pics and lists, although the title I consider is: Novelty, or, How to overcome ennui.

So, luckily, on Monday, there was only one attempt to get a good intravenous connection. However, the way the IV was set up, every time I moved my arm, especially if I bent my elbow at all, a beep-fest would begin. They gave me an extra pillow so I could extend my arm and a warm blanket to keep it warm and covered.

This was taken to a new level when I had to go to radiation. While I lie on the table, I have to bend my arms over my chest. We tried to adjust the tubes so as not to be inhibited, yet the beeps persisted. I was scheduled to see the doc after the treatment, and the technician noticed you could just click “OK” to cancel the alarm. This was a temporary fix, and the beeps would continue.

Fave binges:

• Main binge: Tasting History with Max Miller on YouTube, as noted above
• Other recent binge-worthy watches:
  • The Rookie on Hulu on or after Tuesdays
  • Castle, also starring Nathan Fillion, who I find just funny enough, and I like his character’s somewhat innocent, quirky, and kid-like qualities
  • The Mentalist, which I recently finished
  • A Thousand Blows, about thug life in old England
  • The Artful Dodger, also about thug life in old England, stars David Thewlis as Fagan
    • Fun fact: Oliver Twist was one of the first plays I saw, and books read when I was a kiddo, and inspired a love of all things Dickens

Good reads, or listens if you like audiobooks:

• Currently:
  • The Waiting by Michael Connelly, which is read by Titus Welliver and Maggie Q from the series, makes for a great way to be soothed to sleep, so I put this on at night usually
  • Good Material by Dolly Alderton, which was a wonderful hardcover gift from my youngest, and was referred to her by her older sister, and it is a romantic comedy about a break-up
• Other recommendations:
  • Me, But Better: The Science and Promise of Personality Change by Olga Khazan; A fabulous book for introverts and perfectionists
  • Finding My Way by Malala Yousafzai, which is about navigating her world as a public figure and also as herself (I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban is also a very good read)
  • A lighter rec is Delicious! By Ruth Reichl, and I admit to having gone on a Ruth Reichl binge as well
  • The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, which led me to buy her bird book, The Backyard Bird Chronicles, for myself and my sister-in-law, which is a very lovely book of drawings of her backyard birds and essays
    • I believe she was suffering from some kind of illness during this time, Lyme disease, I think, but mostly she has stated that she created this little marvel due to a desire to escape despair and depression caused by anti-Asian racism and political division, as well as an overall feeling of being “unmotivated”
  • Somehow: Thoughts on Love by Anne Lamott, no more needs to be said here, I think
  • Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
  • The Mona Lisa Vanishes: A Legendary Painter, a Shocking Heist, and the Birth of a Global Celebrity by Nicholas Day
    • I will admit to loving YA books
    • Rez Dogs, a verse novel by Joseph Bruchac, is also just wonderful
    • I have compiled a list of children’s books and YA books I read while earning my MA here: https://www.mindfulness-projects.com/resources/social-inequity#Social-Equity-Books
  • The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin
  • On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft by Stephen King
  • Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari
  • All About Love by bell hooks
  • Lies that Chelsea Handler Told Me by Chelsea’s Family, Friends, and Other Victims
  • From Under the Truck by Josh Brolin
  • When We Cease to Understand the World by Benjamin Labatut

Foods that don’t end up in the freezer:

• One or two slices of Ezekiel bread
• Fresh ground peanut butter and a jar of accompanying organic mixed berry jam
• Plain pasta with olive oil emulsified with a bit of pasta water, salt, pepper, and caramelized tofu, baby bellas, and yellow squash… although what is left over might end up in the dog bowl today….
• Oats and berries
• Kashi cereal
• Saltines, these are really good!

Fave Food Binge:

• One day, I had a weird craving, so I swung by Captain Quackenbush’s after radiation (I really wish we had a Zucchini Kill Bakery down south here, however), and I bought for a mere $26 the following
  • A giant cinnamon roll, a blueberry danish, a slice of carrot cake, a thing called “Eat Your Feelings”, and a sad and tiny vegan berry muffin with raspberry frosting in the corner
  • When I got this all home, I opened them all up on the table, got out the vegan ice cream, and proceeded to take one bite of each
  • Eat Your Feelings did include a dollop of ice cream, thus making the perfect bite as well!
  • Then they all went into the freezer, and that was really fun

Fave hot beverages:

• Four Sigmatic or Laird’s coffee, black in a small, warmed espresso cup
• Four Sigmatic or Laird’s coffee with a frothy “cream” made with heated soy or oat milk mixed with cinnamon or pumpkin pie spice, a tsp of maple syrup, real vanilla, and a tsp of coconut oil blended with a hand blender until frothy
• Yogi Teas: Stomach Ease, Immune and Stress, Lemon and Ginger, Mint
• Organic Black Tea with Lemon
• Organic Green Tea with Lemon

Fave Cold beverages:

• Cold water with lemon
• Carrot, ginger, turmeric, and lemon juice
• 100% Cranberry juice with sparkling water and a lemon slice
• Iced tea of all sorts
• Mixed Berry Smoothies, love these

Fave things to do:

• Sleep, or lie in bed snuggled with dogs
• Walk in the forest and find the sweet things the forest artist leaves for us to find

Try some, try none, leave me more good recs, make comments … and, most importantly, enjoy being in your present moment of this wonderful, strange life!

If you crave a slightly darker writing reflection, feel free to read Friday Black Coffee at https://www.michelleleblancyoga.com/my-cancer-journal/friday-black-coffee ​

Black coffee. Work. Money. Walk dogs. Laundry. Clean house. Wash dog. Black coffee. Get up. Bed is so comfortable. Black coffee. Cramps. Black coffee. Get up. It's so nice with the windows open and the cool breeze. Hot Black Coffee. Financial aid application. Get up. So unmotivated. Hot black coffee. Hot. Black. Coffee. Espresso. Do the budget. Call the social worker back. Get up.

Everything smells weird.

I get up. I put my hair up and walk to the kitchen with as many glasses as I can carry. Yesterday I ended up collecting 6 glasses of liquids next to my bed. Most are still partially full. Green tea, peppermint tea, lemon water, stomach tea, coffee with soy milk, and cranberry juice. Took two trips. Nothing was quite right. The water with lemon, I think, was my favorite. Mmmmm, a fresh thin slice of organic lemon in water. So good from my nose to my tummy. I love fresh lemon. 

After radiation yesterday, I stopped by the grocery store. I had a craving for parsley and garlic with pasta. I had made a pasta earlier, just a little figuring I wouldn't be able to really finish it if I made the whole bag. On a regular day, I make the whole bag and pop the whole thing in the fridge for the week. These days, everything is in the freezer. It makes me hesitate when buying new food. 

I looked around the store. More than $8 for a small package of Benevolent Bacon. $7.50 for burrata. Almost $7 for parm? 

I stick to my little list: parsley, garlic, a squash, tomatoes, baby bellas, and a lemon. $15.25 in total. I pay cash from the garage sale money. It always feels weird to pay cash. I paid cash for gas, too. I guess it's okay to go in and say hello to the gas station guy.

I know I'm not going to be able to eat up all this stuff before it goes bad, so I make a vinegar and olive oil mixture with salt, sugar, and fresh cracked pepper. I finely chop all the parsley and a clove of purple garlic and put it in a jar. I get a bunch of baby bellas and cut them into chunks, and in they go. Next, a few thin-sliced lemons in. I pour in the vinegar and mix it around with a spoon. I taste it. It's pretty darn good. I do love chimichurri, and this is pretty close. I get a few bites of the pasta I made earlier. The pasta has broccoli, Abbott's chop chik'n, and kale in it. I used some good olive oil and pasta water in the cast-iron pan to make a bit of a creamy, saucy vibe. Kosher salt and cracked pepper, of course. The combo of the acidic parsley mix and creamy pasta mix was outstanding. I had about four spoonfuls of the pasta with broccoli, mushroom, parsley, kale, and chik'n, and I was done. But it was good. I get pretty stoked at good, fresh food. 

It's going to be even better tomorrow, I think, and pop a weight in the jar. I cover it with a soft lid, and into the fridge it goes. I think about toasting up some panko and salt to sprinkle on top tomorrow. Yum. The best part about all this is that it is a spot of happiness. Right now, I'm not feeling like there's much bringing me joy. I'm not sure what the endgame is here, mostly because I'm not sure I trust everything these docs are saying, since it's been a moving target since the beginning. One doc said I'd be getting Pembro injections for two years after chemo ended. Two years?! This was not a part of the original conversation. I guess they say what they need to to get you in and signed up.

One step at a time. Step one: overcome ennui and despair. Hot Black Coffee. Up we go.

The dogs always make me happy. They're so sweet and cute and innocent. They're probably a tad frustrated with me since sometimes they don't get their daily walk. Roxy wonders why the hell I'm here all day. Remy is just glad the bedroom door is open all day since I am here, and he can lie on the bed. I can tell they can tell that I'm sick. In the first few days, they wouldn't eat their food. Roxy was getting an upset stomach and drooled all night one night. I had to start adding something irresistible to their bowls to be sure they'd eat. Roxy would do a little dance. She much prefers I cook for her than just offer a bowl of kibble and lets me know it.

It's Friday, and I think about garage sale stuff for the weekend. It's supposed to rain on Saturday. I'll have to plan around that. Last weekend I had such a nice talk with my sister-in-law while sitting in the garage. The week went by really fast, and I can't believe it's the weekend again. It was good to have a good cry. I confessed to considering all the choices I've made to bring me to this point in life. She donated $100 to my GoFundMe and talked to me about wanting to help, that that amount would be easy, and not to worry. I'm not sure if it was feelings of guilt or gratitude or humility or regret or some combination, but it moved me, as I know she, too, is going through her own struggles.

In the time I've been going through this, friends have brought to my attention that this failing body has brought three beautiful children into the world (whether the said children like that or not), gone on adventures, done the best it could, has taken chances, tried to honor grandparents, tried to reconcile trauma, tried to right wrongs, and stood for things. It feels weak to me. In the layers of activists in the history of the world, I am near the middle-bottom. I am certain. Like when I check a race result, and although I might hit a PR, overall, I'm in the last quarter or third of finishers. Should I have trained harder? Should I have fundraised harder? Should I have been louder for my cause?

When I was little, I wanted to be a writer and a vet. I wanted to heal animals and help nature flourish, and write and draw about it.

When I was a teen, I wanted to be an advocate for girls and women in abusive situations, somehow. Maybe I could write about that. What would I write? But then, I found out about how many boys, too, were being exploited and abused. I started learning about the psychology of abuse. The complications, the cycles, the justifications, the perpetuation, the systematization of it... And then I started seeing all of the other writings, films, and documentaries on it. To this day, it is still something I cannot fully understand. We know it is there, yet it has been unstoppable so far. This illness some people have. I see it carried over into animal abuse and factory farm abuse, too. It is not comprehensible to me, the uncalled-for meanness, the disassociation from compassion, the greed. 

But I don't want to understand it. I want it to stop. Awareness is not the way, as people have been trying to share awareness of trauma and generational trauma for centuries, and we are not improving. After a while, the why doesn't matter because existence is ever-present. Now, it is exposed at the highest levels of world power, yet justice remains unattained. 

When I had cancer the first time, I was without insurance. I get The Gerson Therapy book with recipes, a book called How Not to Die by Michael Greger, and Un-Do-It by Dean Ornish. I watch videos and make the recipes and juice fresh, organic veggies. I do yoga and ride my bike everywhere since I had no car. I meditate and listen to healing frequencies. And I find Louise Hay's book of affirmations. These affirmations, she believed, would help reverse the subconscious attack we place on ourselves due to guilt, low self-esteem, or self-doubt. 

In Heal Your Body, Hay compiles a list of ailments in alphabetical order from Abdominal Cramps (Probable cause: Fear. Stopping the process. New thought pattern: I trust the process of life. I am safe.) to Yeast Infections (See: Candida, Thrush. Probable cause: Denying your own needs. Not supporting yourself. New thought pattern: I now choose to support myself in loving, joyous ways.). 

The 'new thought pattern' for each ailment seemed positive, harmless. Could help. Doesn't seem like it could make me worse. Maybe it'll change my attitude. Maybe it'll help me.

I keep reading.

Cancer. Probable cause: Deep hurt. Longstanding resentment. Deep secret or grief eating away at the self. Carrying hatreds. "What's the use?" New thought pattern: I lovingly release and forgive all of the past. I choose to fill my world with joy. I love and approve of myself.

I listen to healing frequencies and repeat: I lovingly release and forgive all of the past. I choose to fill my world with joy. I love and approve of myself.

My youngest, being a musician, doesn't believe in healing frequencies. All of the experts say it's nonsensical and ineffective.

I'm not sure what the harm is, so I continue.

Moreso, I'm fascinated by scientists who've hooked up wires to mycelium and tree roots to transmit bioelectric signals which produce sounds. What are these amazing vibrations? They are imperceptible to us, yet they exist, and I cannot think of anything more beautiful. Nature sounds. Are they communicating? Are they singing? What horror if the sound stops. What silence. I prefer they hum and move and vibrate and sing. They live so, of course, yes! They would have bioelectric signals that create patterns, vibrations, and waves of sound. The idea is so lovely to me, frankly, I don't really care if it is just nonsense.

I find a video interview with Louise Hay. It's old. From the 80's, maybe. I want to learn more.

In the interview, she said she had overcome "incurable" cervical cancer. She had been abused as a child and raped and kept this secret to herself for many years, like a shameful burden. Right or wrong, she believed her illness stemmed from this abuse. She did not mean to blame herself for what had happened, but somehow she felt the negativity manifesting in herself and in her body. Intellectually, she knew: it was not her fault. When she was diagnosed with a cancer in her female parts, she made this association and thought to deeply meditate on it to change the way she perceived herself, the rape, the blame, and the shame. She believed love and joy of and for herself would be healing. She chose to cherish her body and especially this part, which was now under attack. She put together an affirmation to remind herself to forgive and live with loving and joyful kindness toward herself.

I, too, took up this practice of daily affirmations and felt an appreciation for her strength and vulnerability and ability to overcome the many barriers she faced, including this illness and whatever shame that came with it. 

Despite the ubiquity of abuse in common women's lives, it seems our outspoken light posts are wealthy or famous women like Louise Hay, or Florence Foster Jenkins, who contracted syphilis from her first husband on their wedding night. Why are we not outraged by this in our history and this present-day reality? A reality where just this week our nation simultaneously removed murals of Cesar Chavez because of allegations of rape, while at the same time, a convicted sex offender added his name to our printed money.

​It is maddening.

I begin to think about Deborah Spungen's book title, And I Don't Want to Live This Life, about her daughter Nancy, who dated Sid Vicious from about 1977 until she died in 1978. This was the first time I thought about someone who suffered from psychosis and extreme selfishness for reasons unknown to me. I mean, was Nancy abused? From what was she trying to escape? The book is from the mother's perspective, so perhaps there were family secrets she did not reveal or even know about. The book title echoed in my mind.

The other book title I kept thinking about was Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. While these titles kept coming to the forefront of my mind, and I can relate to the sentiments, I want to be clear, I am not suicidal. Instead, I think about this movement of beaten-down, impoverished, angry, neglected children and teens who turned lashing out into a cultural and musical movement. For some, there were extremes. For others, they sought a place to belong and not be beaten so badly. Beaten on by those who were charged with protecting them, I might add. This is the worst crime, in my humble opinion.

I think about Frank McCourt and his trilogy, which starts with Angela's Ashes. I think about the mysterious Irish origins of my grandmother, who came over in the early 1900's. Was she really one of 14 children? Were her adoptees German? Jewish? Were they fleeing Europe? Why would she choose to believe the church (pastor) over her own child, who claimed abuse? Who was that guy, and what was his gross story?

I think about the time I was hitching a ride with some hippies traveling with the Dead tour, and we picked up a skateboarder kid who had a thumb on the side of the road. The nice hippie dudes turned into Neanderthals real quick. Why pick this punk kid up if they were just going to be dumb and rude? Hippies. Not without contradictions and a lack of self-awareness, while simultaneously seen as free-loving, open-minded, and generous people. Not all, of course.

I think about my mom and how I'm a mom, and how, although I never really felt sympathy for my father, I did not like looking at my mom as abused or weaker or vulnerable when she was really so very strong despite her four-foot-eleven-inch stature.

I do not want to be seen by my children as vulnerable, I thought.

"So, Sam and Ryan don't know?" my sister-in-law asked.

"I don't know. I asked Delilah not to talk to them about it, though," I said.

"They must know. You posted it on social media."

"I'm not friends with Ryan on social media, and you know how kids are, they have more than one account, so Sam probably doesn't check the one we're friends on," I say. "That kid's going through their own stuff right now anyway. I don't expect to hear from her. I don't need to."

"You're protecting them," she says.

"No. I don't think I've earned the right to make that claim," I say. "I mean, I wish. It has always been an intention. But ... that's a big claim, and I don't know what they've gone through that they haven't told me. I mean, Sam was such a crazy, happy, and outgoing child, and I'm not sure what happened. What changed. What awareness is causing this brooding, and desire to forget... She told me she doesn't want to remember. She probably forgot even telling me that by now. One day, she wants to move to Chicago, and the next, she acts like she never said that to me. We had a whole conversation about how Delilah stayed with Ryan and his girlfriend for a while in their spare room and how it was fine, so she was going to try it too. Now, she says she likes Austin and isn't going to move. Delilah wanted to come down and stay with me, but between the travel garbage with the TSA and trying to sell this place, I said it's okay. Besides, I have a friend who says I can stay rent-free if I need to. If the house sells."

I sat in the garage with the door open. A car approached. I asked my sister-in-law to hang on while some people came to look at my glass bowls and power tools. I have so many things still from my mom and from my grandparents on my dad's side. Crystal bowls, punch bowls, China, actual silver silverware, silver serving ware, silverware with bone handles, kimonos, yukattas, a fur-trimmed coat. It's funny the things that are valued during an era. Or popular. 

My dad always liked the Japanese ways of doing things: clean, pure, efficient, exacting. My mom was thrilled with all things American: grandma's roasts - chicken, turkey, beef, pork, with all the trimmings, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, apple pie, chocolate chip cookies, strawberry rhubarb pie, porkchops and apple sauce, the fish-fry at the VFW, steak and potatoes, and instant coffee.

My dad would always throw a fit. 

"You made enough food to feed an army!" he'd yell.

"Hey, leave her alone," I'd say. "Why don't you do the cooking, then?!"

And he'd get so mad, he'd get up and leave.

I loved my mom's cooking. Even if it did make me fat. I loved the way she'd get those weird Entenmann's Danish breads and coffee cakes. And the fruit-filled kolaches from the Polish bakery. 

She'd make some Japanese and American-Chinese dishes too. Egg-foo yung and sukiyaki were regularly on the menu for dinner. Also, not healthy, according to dad. And, for breakfast, my mom would make fresh, hot Japanese rice and crack an egg right in it, which would cook because the rice was so hot. I'd always have to have plenty of roasted seaweed to wrap up my bites with using my chopsticks. I'd sip hot miso soup. The perfect accompaniment. Sometimes she'd make salmon and broccoli with hot rice. Another great little filling for my nori on the side.

My mom was steady. She didn't always know what she was doing, but she was always doing something for the good of us. She was the hardest-working person I've ever met. I admit to resenting Mom because, with all this strength and steadiness, she could not protect me. She could not tell her friends why I had run away. She could not bring my dad to justice, and my dad did everything he could to try to justify his way out of being guilty of anything.

Was there a rift in his brain? In his personality?

No. I felt no sympathy for Dad.

And I wonder if that is how my kids might think of me.

To be clear, I spent my whole life trying to not let what happened to me happen to my children. I worked very hard to give them every opportunity: dance, drama, music lessons, language lessons, church, swimming lessons, swim team, climbing lessons, climbing team, soccer, t-ball, Brownies, Boy Scouts, skiing, travel, and camping. I opened my own businesses to be available to them. To be there when they were little.

But I did divorce their father and other such selfish acts. It might be unforgivable. I don't know. What I do know is that every time my very unemotional middle child tells me he loves me, it brings me a deep and satisfying joy. And when I share quips with my oldest, I feel connected. And when my youngest gives me a hug as we part, I feel loved in the tiniest yet biggest way.

My life has not been a straight arrow. I've had targets before and tried laying paths and making plans. I've tied myself to machines meant to cut down forests, protested over hunting, gone to political rallies with signs and chanting, opened a cultural center to combat cultural ignorance in my fair town, only to draw out all of the xenophobic neighbors I didn't know I had. I've met great people who encouraged me to keep going no matter what. I've retreated into places of examination. I've rescued and rehomed countless dogs. I've stayed the course with my own rescue dogs despite many bites. I've always been an advocate for free and vast education and language and languages. I've never been a lover of politics, politicians, and their rhetoric. I've always appreciated philosophers and their wisdom.

But I've not been a straight arrow. Something that might've come in handy right about now if only I had a good savings, retirement, or prepared for possible healthcare issues. I suppose there's a lesson in there, but maybe not. I know people who lost their whole life savings due to being wrapped up in retirement funds, too. 

Life is not fair, and I don't think it is supposed to be. These journeys we are on are just that, and they are personal. Seeking fairness is futile. But we can create better systems where healthcare is policy. We can improve our humanity and culture. We can hold up laws that foster freedom, creativity, and a basic standard of living for people in our country. We can protect our wildlife and value natural spaces. We can prioritize education and humanity over warmongering and profiteering. We can end systematically abusive methodologies like factory farming and human trafficking alike... 

These endeavors are not futile. They are not hopeless. Other countries are doing it and better than we are, and we could take a lesson from the Finns, the Dutch, the Swiss, the Norwegians, the Japanese, the French, and the Canadians. I am so impressed by all those who continue to stand up against this oligarchy-wannabe. In some ways, we really have no choice.

Honestly, I never thought it would get to this. But I will not whine, as a friend from Eastern Europe likes to say I do. Whine about being a woman, whine about being old, whine about being cancerous, whine about the US. Strangely, I'm glad I have someone who will say such things to me, constantly making sure I am humble and that I act, not complain.

On this Friday morning, I have hot black coffee ... like a stiff slap in the face... Hot black coffee and things to be grateful for.

​And so, I am.

Not sure if I can really type for long with all this stuff on my arm, but I can't really reach my pen, so here I am. I wore a sleeveless shirt over the weekend, trying to garage sale as much of my stuff as possible to help pay for this treatment and my time off. My sport climbing gear was very popular for a minute. Sold two ropes (one 60 meters, one 70 meters) for a steal, 15 quickdraws, and 3 chalk bags. I kept my flower one even though I should probably sell it too. One guy who asked how long the rope was replied to my answer of 70 meters with, Oh, okay. Well, I need 200 feet. 

"Kill me now," I thought.

Looking down at my arms, I couldn't help but wonder what these young climbers must be thinking about me selling my gear. Addict? Junkie? Needs to pay for her habit. Oh well. I think I seem like a nice person regardless.

Day 8. They struggled trying to get a good vein today. And, apparently, topical anesthesia is only for port patients. Those nurses really like those ports. 

​Drew blood when I arrived, so that was stab one. But then they couldn't place the IV. The nurse tried twice and got another nurse to come over, so that's three more stabs. She got my left forearm going. The first nurse came back and pushed my iron supplement for about 7.5 minutes. Went through fine, but it felt a little pinched and seemed to be swelling a little. Fun fact: that iron makes urine turn blackish brown.

The guy from radiology came up.

"Hey, Ms. LeBlanc. How are you?" he said, "Hey, so, we're going to get you right now. We can get you in early, so we're just going to bring this whole thing downstairs. But don't worry, I'll get this for you."

I looked at my left arm again. Was it swelling? Was the liquid going under my skin? I couldn't tell. The first nurse came over and took a peek. She was about to disconnect the little adapter and said she was going to flush it, but I stopped her. I just couldn't imagine her telling me it wasn't flushing, or maybe I'd feel that pinching pain again as she pushed the saline through.

"Maybe we just give it a minute. I'll go downstairs and keep an eye on it and see if it keeps swelling."

"So, don't flush it?"

"Well, no. This guy is here, and I'm feeling kind of traumatized from everything right now."

"Okay. The only way we can really know is if we flush it. We'll check it again when you get back."

The wheels on my IV cart aren't doing so well today, either. But the guy pushes it along and picks it up every now and then. As I walk along behind him, I notice a lot of people have people with them, but they're on their phones. Not only are they on their phone, but the patients are on their phones too. Is this company? Well, I guess so. I keep walking, not really feeling like I'm missing out on anything. 

A nice fella with an IV stand joins us to go down to radiation. In the elevator, we talk more about ports. He's got one. 

"Yeah, and they charge ya $350 for it too. Coulda made a car payment," he says. "Being sick ain't cheap! How many more do you have left?"

"Four more weeks of chemo after today," I say.

"Yeah, I've got six or seven. I guess they only make ya get 'em if you got a lot to do. Still, I don't know if I needed this thing," he said.

Of course, as he says, six and seven, I think of my students.

"Siiiiiiix seeeevvvvveeeeennnnnn," they chime out in my head.

It happens to be flower day today, and people are passing out bouquets for patients and staff. I don't take any, but I think it's a really nice gesture. One lady stops the radiologist to make sure he can pick one for his wife. Roses. Pink roses, white roses, and some that look like they're a light pink color in the center with a hint of yellow. 

Inside the radiation room, I fit my legs into the mold they made. My skin is starting to show signs of that tissue-like quality older people have. I don't feel like this should be happening to me. My imagination is overactive, and I'm constantly thinking of way more than I can actually do. But I hope. I had to cancel my yoga studio membership, so actually, I'm going to be doing one less thing than I had been doing. I'm glad I did the January challenge at the studio. It's been a while since I've done one.

He tapes the IV line down, and I put my hands on my chest, and they get it started. The machine moves around. I hear the whirring and spitting sounds. I think about sailing. I wonder why I spent so much of my childhood on boats between Florida and Lake Michigan, and yet so few of my adult years. I allow my mind to go there. Floating. I look at where the water falls off the earth on the horizon and the different shades of color in the sky. 

"You look like you're doing better today," one guy says when they return to the room.

"Because I finally (swear word) pooped!" I say.

"Good. I'm glad. I know you were having trouble with that. Hold still one more second so I can measure you."

He makes a measurement. I had gained some weight and then lost it again, so I'm the same as when I started last week. The measurements are to ensure they're treating the correct area each time. Apparently, a gas bubble on Friday slightly pushed the targeted area out of range. 

I'm supposed to see the doctor after, but while in the room, the nurse thinks the IV is infiltrating the area and should not be swelling like it is. Another nurse comes in and looks. She leaves. They decide they're going to remove the IV. She stops the machine, so then, while I'm waiting for someone to come remove it, the machine has two different sets of beeps going off. I sit there. My hand is on my head. Beeep. Bebeep. Beeeep. Bebeep. A handful of minutes pass like this before another nurse comes in. 

"We're going to remove this. A little alcohol will help the adhesive," she says as she dabs the pad with the alcohol while tugging on the corners of the various adhesives. I close my eyes. She pulls it out and turns off the beeping while making a little chit-chat about school, what grade I teach, how I like it, and the STAAR test.

After she leaves, I see a little biohazard blood on the floor. I sit and wait. I hear the doc in the other room. She had tried to come in while the nurse was there, but said she'd come back. I should've stopped her. By the way the muffled dialogue was going, I felt it would take a while to get back to me. I decide I'm not going to wait, so I go out. I let the nurses know about going back upstairs and about the biohazard on the floor. They're sweet, and the radiology guy comes back to help me with my IV stand. I know I'm going to get stabbed again, and I'm not looking forward to it, so I decide to make some coffee at the machine and look at their pretzels and crackers. It took a minute to figure out how the coffee machine works. I am cold. My left hand is ice cold. I feel really tender where the IV had been. I'm all bandaged up. 

The first nurse meets me back at my chair. She's "shopping," she says. Shopping for veins. She rubs much of my right forearm with alcohol. She presses veins. She wraps the rubber band around my bicep. She presses some more. She moves the rubber band down and looks at my wrist. She thinks she found a good one. I close my eyes. I try to keep my right hand relaxed, but grip my left hand. 

"Deep breath," she says.

I take a deep breath in and slowly blow it out like I'm blowing out a candle. I let my mind go back to the boat on the water. Stay on the water. Look at the sky and feel the breeze. Deep breaths.

Nope. Stab five doesn't work. She tapes up the needle mark.

"I thought for sure we were going to get that one," I say. "It looked really good. Like a big one."

"Nope. Alright," she says. "Let's see who's available to help out."

A few minutes later, another nurse comes by.

"Okay. Let's take a look," he says. "Oh, yes. I think this one will be really good."

I look away, close my eyes, deep breath, sailing, horizon, don't want to look yet, blow out candles, sailing, water, boats....

"There we go!" he says. "You know, I was having so much trouble in my own station, but then I came over here. And voila! It's all good." 

He seems happy, and I don't feel a thing. No pinch. Nothing. All taped up and ready to go. The 6th stab was the charm!

Day 2. ​I am beyond grateful for the support I've received so far! Right now, I'm surprised how incredibly tired I am. I just got off a video consult with a surgeon, so I had to get up and move about. Will it continue to be like this? I still have another appointment to go to today, so I guess I should make some more coffee! There's much to do also. I usually get up at 4 am, so Tuesday being garbage day, I thought I'd do it this morning. As I write this at 236PM, I'm watching the recycling truck go by and remember I slept right through my alarm this morning. Oh well, I think. I'm not going out there now! 

No appetite this morning, but I had some pharmaceuticals to take that require food. As I started taking things out of the fridge, my appetite emerged, and I was excited to eat! I skipped dinner last night - just couldn't imagine food. Very unlike me. Especially the last few weeks, my cravings have been all over the place, and I wondered where my discipline had gone! I had eaten so much that I even gained 5 pounds! Geesh. But when I had my consult yesterday before chemo, the doctor told me I'm anemic. I'm 7.6, where I should be 12, and 7 is the threshold for a blood transfusion. Internal bleeding, she said, over a long period of time. So, did I want a blood transfusion? No. I do not. Okay, well, we can do liquid iron in your infusion next Monday, then, she said. 

After chemo, I picked up some iron tablets from Central Market. I still haven't walked the dogs, which is usually a 5-530 am task, and I should probably take a shower. Should I take another nap first? Maybe coffee... I'll sleep later. Am I doing this right?

​Day 4. My body is still trying to figure out what is going on. Food and drinks are unappealing. Everything smells funny. I'm constipated, where normally I'm super healthy in that department. Funny how that throws me off mentally, too. Coffee is unappealing, where normally I can't wait to jump out of bed and make some. My dishes are pretty backed up... gotta do that today. My dogs aren't eating their food, and they're snuggling up to me so hard as to almost push me off my bed. I'm so glad I feel good enough to sit and type right now. I'm afraid yesterday I was pretty bad and felt like I was going to throw up the whole way to and from and during radiation therapy. 

"How are you today?" they ask. 

"Well, I'm going to throw up on you," I think. 

I lie down, my hands on my chest, and I close my eyes. My legs fit into a mold they made to ensure I'd lie in the same position each session. They close the giant door that is about 10 inches thick and extends from floor to ceiling, and is labeled with radiation and biohazard warning signs. They'll be right back, they say. 

Nice uplifting 60's music plays. I hear the buzzing sound of the machine starting to whirr as it circles my waist. It sounds like it's sputtering and spitting and moving. I keep my eyes closed briefly, thinking of the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but then relax deeply into the recesses of my mind because I am so darn sleepy. When it's over, they come in. 

"We're back!" they say. 

They got me in pretty quickly today. Yesterday I waited about an hour. Then they tell me to have more of a full bladder tomorrow. Sure. No problem. I know they mean well and, honestly, they are very kind people. But I sure was grumpy yesterday. Hopefully, they forgive that. 

So, now, it's official. Leave is approved, and I am not getting a paycheck on March 31st, and I am on my own. I hope to get the Short Term Disability process started today, especially if I'm feeling good enough to sit up. I've got other things to do also: lesson plans, trying to garage sell stuff on FB Market, go to radiation, clean up the house a bit, and get the dogs out because I have a house showing today too. Unfortunately, I wasn't well enough to accept the showing yesterday. I really need to sell this place or get a good book deal or something to fund my life right now. 

So, I opted not to get the port. My veins are going to look pretty bad. After the consultation with the surgeon, however, I thought I'd do my best without. It's risky either way. The port goes right into your heart. You can imagine there would be risks there. She said the cisplatin is harmful to the veins, but is one of the less harmful toxins, and since I have 5 more rounds, it should be fine. Fine? Okay? Everything is a hassle and expensive. Will not doing this help? Who knows. Nothing is easily discernible right now, and I am definitely dancing in the dark. 

My imagination led me to believe I might be able to do all these things to make up for it. I had hearty plans to do a drawing a day and a yoga video a week. Now, I'm not so sure. I'm just grateful to be sitting upright now. Hopefully, I'll take the dogs for a walk later because they haven't been for a walk since Monday. Normally, it's once or twice a day. I really need to pick weeds, too. But I just made another ten bucks selling CO2 cartridges. I have a bunch more to sell. Hopefully, we'll have some cool weather for a few days. I'm really loving the overcast today. Counting my blessings where I can.

And, so, that is all of what it says on my social media. Of which, I am just using Facebook for now. My daughter encourages me to try TikTok too - however you spell that - but after a while, it seems like I'd just be using social media to promote other social media. I considered using Blue Sky. In the past, I've always been an early adopter of things. There is a search engine that says they support dogs, too, which caught my eye. But being an early adopter has never really done me much good, really. I've been using Credo Mobile for decades, and I'm still really the only one who seems to know about it. Once, a Credo rep even told me that because of the way I use my phone, I actually cost them money. I've never done an analysis on it, so I don't know. And, of course, another rep told me to forgive the first rep. Whatever the case, they claim to support all the same causes I support, so I've stuck with them, and they've always provided a good service.

​All of these things are so distracting. Messages, calls, doctors, people buying my FB Marketplace items, and my personal to-do list are flying at my head with great speed. My head is like a speedbag at a boxing ring. One-two combo here. Jab, punch, jab there. I turn it all off and go to the kitchen and pig out on something. Anything. I look at my watch, and I'm between yoga classes. I could do one online. I decide to walk the dogs. No. Just one dog. I'm going to the forest. I feel terrible, but good at the same time, because I'm walking off what I just ate, and that's good for me. But my leg hurts, and I'm unusually tired. I keep going. My eyes are kind of blurry, heavy, watery. I keep going. Up and down the rocky slopes. I'm glad my quads are getting a little something. Big muscle groups. It's good to work those big muscle groups.

Roxy is getting a little tired. It's 85° out, my watch says. The shade feels okay, but the sun is bright, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. I hear a flapping sound and think of rattlesnakes, but it's just a grasshopper. I call Roxy away anyway. She likes to stay low in the shade and walk in the woods parallel to me off-trail. 

We head back up and out. On the way, I can't help but notice all of the colors and shades of an early spring sunlight passing through the leaves, giving them a radiant luminescence. It's like they were happy, dancing in the cool breeze under the canopy's shelter to the birdsong. I'm glad she didn't roll in anything stinky this day. Yesterday, we had to swing by the pet store dog-wash station on the way home because she found something particularly foul. Even with all the windows open, there was no escaping. 

While we're there, it strikes me how knowing she is. She sniffs all the things, the bones and ears and toys, but takes nothing. She must know they don't belong to her, and we're in a strange place where all of these tasty and good-smelling things are on display, but not to be licked or taken. 

At home, the bombardment begins again. I navigate it for a while, stress-eat again, take a brain break, find myself looking at the time in between yoga classes again, and sit back down at the computer. 

As evening descends, I realize Remy still hasn't gotten his walk. As the sun goes down, the temperature is more to his liking. In midsummer, we have to go out very early because he tends to lie down suddenly if it's too hot. He'll lie down in the middle of the road as we're crossing it. He doesn't care. 

A friend reaches out. 

"Dog party?" he asks. 

"You should come over here," I say, knowing my phone will keep going off with people trying to buy my FB Marketplace stuff.

He doesn't know that, plus I sent a typo: "I think you should bring ivermectin, a good whiskey, and I’ll order pizza," I text back.

He thinks I'm joking and lets me know he'll be back around 6, and he can get a pizza and has some beers already.

Somewhere in that time, I've eaten and just feel like drinking water. So, I load Rem and Rox in the car, and we go over. They love seeing Luna. Rox and Luna play chase at full speed around the shed, yard, and patio, and they tumble and roll when they catch each other. Rox will hold on to Luna's cheek sometimes as they run. Luna will do something similar, but it ends up just being a lot of slobber all over Roxy. Then Rox might take a tumble in the dirt. With all that slobber, it becomes weird, muddy patches around her withers, neck, and face.

My phone starts going off. 

"Ugh, someone wants something. They say they'll be over in like an hour."

"Oh, yeah? It's been busy?"

My phone goes off again. Another potential buyer. Finally, a third person buzzes, but this time they are in the area and want to come by in about half an hour. 

"Boy, I should've gone to your place," he says. "When you wrote to bring over ivermectin and whiskey, I thought, Now that's a party!" and he laughed. 

"I said what?" I asked.

"Ivermectin. It's that horse tranquilizer stuff that the MAGA people think will cure them of cancer or something," he says.

"WHAT?" I say. "Did I write that?!" 

I try searching my phone without my good glasses on.

"I got it right here," he says and shows me.

I laugh so hard I start crying. He's laughing and talking about what a great party that would be, and how we can cure diseases and everything all at once. I'm thinking my phone has a life of its own, and joke about AI taking over my texting functions. I have never even heard of ivermectin! Maybe my speech-to-text heard me wrong. Maybe people are talking about ivermectin so much it naturally thought that was what I was saying. Whisky and ivermectin! Because that is what people want! Of course it is.

I look at the fish in this image and think, Just jump out, fish! Jump out!

But of course, it isn't going to. It's a still image. It is me. Me floating around in my fishbowl when the whole ocean I can't seem to access is all around me. Maybe an orca will come and chomp me up. Oh, wait, no. Don't do that, Mr. Orca. The bowl is made of glass.

I'm exhausted already. I opened the door to doctors and have been called, scheduled, poked, prodded, and scanned with urgency. Is it intentionally made so urgent that it results in my not changing my mind?  Well, it worked. Here I am. I already signed the agreement to do the radiation therapy, and my chemo has been scheduled. At first, they told me I'd be able to work minus the one full day of chemo per week and possibly a 5-day intensive radiation therapy. But when I sent the FMLA forms to the nurses, they called. 

"Are you sure that's what you want to do? Most people take the whole time off? You're going to be sick: vomiting, diarrhea, nausea," the nurse said.

"But they told me the nausea meds were better now. They said I should be able to keep working except for the chemo day because it takes all day. I can't afford to just take 6 or 7 weeks off from work. I've already explained to every doctor I've seen that I can't afford this treatment and I can't afford to take off work," I explained.

"Well, you're going to be sick."

"In the first week? How about we go through the first week and see how it goes?"

"Umm... I'm going to have the benefits rep call you."

Now I'm terrified. How sick am I going to be? And how am I going to afford this? At first, I thought I'd need to sell enough of my things to cover the $6000 deductible and a sub for 6 Mondays plus one week. Now I have to cover 7 weeks of time off? 

I start to imagine being in class during a math lesson and throwing up and needing to be dragged out. Or worse, I poop my pants. No one wants to see that. I definitely don't want to experience it. What if I pass out? Will all this sickness start during the first week? Plus, it put all this pressure on my co-workers.

I feel the need to write. To dump out the whirlwind of overwhelming thoughts. I reach out to the yoga studio. Maybe I can start a yoga-for-cancer workshop? Distraction. Keep busy. Wait. Should I write or video my thoughts? People don't read so much anymore. Maybe I should vlog. I have to raise some money. Should I do a GoFundMe? No. eBay, I think. I think I should make an eBay store. It's like an online garage sale. My kids don't seem to want any of this stuff, so I should just sell it. Facebook Marketplace, maybe? Both? Can I do both?

I look at old photos as I log on to my website. My dogs keep farting, and it annoys me. I turned the ceiling fan off because there's a cold front that came through, and it's 47°F outside. The heat kicks on, and the air starts moving around. Thank goodness. What did I feed them? 

All of the photos on my website remind me of the big block of time I spent bicycling, doing yoga, reading, fundraising, spending time outside, working, making art, writing, and traveling. I used to love holding those art workshops for kids. I really want to keep making art, share it, and teach it. I can't imagine lugging all that stuff around anymore, though. I look up how to start classes at the local park district and think it over some. 

I really loved teaching yoga, too. 

Maybe that's what my vlog can be. Maybe I can make online yoga classes. Do I have a good room for that? Not really. But I have an extra room. God, I hate video editing. I guess I could record it live. Maybe one of those yoga studios will hit me up and reply to my email about holding a workshop or two there. Could I incorporate journaling, drawing, or something too? Meditation? I should really write about how I "healed" my cancer the first time with nutrition, meditation, and exercise. I should really do those things again, even if I am doing chemo and radiation, but I'm not feeling it. I don't feel I have the energy to do all that again.

I did a lot. It would take at least 3 hours a day between the soup and juicing. And I kept working. I didn't own a car then, so I'd ride my bike maybe 20 to 50 miles a day. But hey, look, now I'm being told I must make the time for this chemo and radiation, and may even have to take all this time off work. What have I agreed to?!

The nurse writes me again.

"Are you sure you don't want to schedule the PET scan?"

"It's not going to change the course of therapy, is it? Is there time for that? Does she really need it?"

It seems like one thing after another. Of course, I want to go along with everything they're recommending. Or do I? I think about the actor who recently died. He must have had a decent amount in his savings. But he needed a GoFundMe or something? Died broke? How did that happen? ​If these wealthy guys are going broke because of this stuff, how is a regular person who poorly planned her life supposed to afford it? I don't know, but here we go...