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How Do You Feel About It?

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  So I've been pretty fixated on Franken-Arm, and finding the levity, and cracking jokes, and accessorizing, etc. Until a friend on another platform asked me the simplest question that no one else had, and it floored me. They asked: "How do you feel about it?" I started crying and didn't really know what to say. How DO I feel about this gaping wound that will never heal? That part(s) of my body are gone, that others are in different places, that I've been sliced and diced to oblivion and the REAL fun hasn't even STARTED yet? "How do you feel about it?" I feel pretty shit about it, frankly. Sure I can hide my arm easily with accessories, but I know it's there. I know what it looks like, how it ALWAYS will look. I feel the numbness in my fingers and the shooting nerve pain from where they're beginning to grow back to a small extent. It's always present. It's always making itself known. It's ALWAYS THERE, reminding me of what I'v...
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Fear Is The Mind-Killer

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 "Are you scared?" The question asked in hushed tones, as if being afraid of the unknown, faced with something of this magnitude, wouldn't be what, socially acceptable? That being scared should be some sort of secret, smashed down in my psyche while I'm supposed to be all zen and live laugh love through this river of shit?  Fuck yes I'm scared. I'm scared shitless, but maybe not for the reason that's most obvious.  Sure, I'm scared of the imminent world of physical pain I'm going to be in, but they have lovely things like morphine drips for that shit.  Sure, I'm scared of not being able to breathe, or swallow, or talk. That's fucking terrifying, are you kidding me? But they have things like physical and occupational therapy for that shit. Sure, I'm scared that the surgery won't get it all, and that radiation will nuke my face and throat, and that I'll never taste anything again. But we don't know if that's definitely goi...
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The Reality of Cancer in 2022 America

 Okay I'll make this one quick n' dirty (just like me) Having a medical issue/situation/crisis in the USA in 2022 is shitfuckery of the first order. First, the good news: My medical team is OUTSTANDING. My support system is OUTSTANDING. The bad news: My only source of income is my SSDI. My only medical insurance is Medicare (My SSDI payments are THREE DOLLARS over the limit to qualify for Medicaid,) which is a fucking crime.) I bet you know where this is going.  Yep, my darling friend Sunday set up a GoFundMe for the endless medical bills this will create. And I'm sharing it with you. NOW, A COUPLE THINGS ABOUT THAT. Times are rough financially if not nearly unbearable for so, so many people. SO many people. I understand this ENTIRELY. So if you can't or choose not to donate? ABSOLUTELY UNDERSTOOD. Without a shadow of a doubt, I completely understand. But if you want to, here's the link. My gratitude is overwhelming just having y'all read this blog, but I would ...
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In The Beginning...

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  My first tattoo was a tramp stamp of my astrological sign, Cancer. It was practically law in New Jersey for the tramp stamp to happen and by god it did. My mother has yet to forgive me for that one, as the sign for Cancer is basically a 69. Exactly what you want on your only daughter’s back for all eternity. But I love that tattoo, like I love all my tattoos. They’re part of who I am, and frankly I fit the Cancer “profile” exactly. I never thought that would be the set up to the dumbest joke I’ve ever been part of, but here we are. Because as of August 12, 2022, Cancer is more than my astrological sign or a tattoo on my back. Yep. It’s exactly what I’m so clumsily implying. Specifically, I’ve got Squamous Cell Carcinoma in my mouth and the lymph nodes in my neck. What does that mean? It means that I was correct six months ago when I told my dentist there was a sore on my tongue that wouldn’t go away. He said it was nothing. Two weeks later I saw an oral surgeon for an unrelated t...
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