I can’t write about cancer or surgeries or recovery or healing.
Not because it’s too soon or I’m sad. I wrote a post about what I’ve been through and how it sucked and promptly deleted it. I can’t remember the last time I deleted a blog post, but God the thing was long and boring, and boohoo.
I like that people read and sometimes relate to my blog, but honestly, I write here for myself. It’s a place to drop the occasional milestone, mostly my observations, and a space to revisit the past me.
I must be a tough critic because every time I try to write about my health adventures or anything related to boobs after my initial post, I just want to puke. I don’t care. Tubes and goo and yuck do not interest me, and if it doesn’t interest me, I don’t want it here.
While there are writers who can craft brilliance from life-altering struggles, I am not that girl. I’m not that deep.
I am through staring at my screen waiting for the last two years to bloom into a series of pithy and relatable posts. I’ve got nothing, and I would much rather write about why my new toothbrush is so aggressive or how fantastic it would be if I could get my neurotic dog Jack into a kayak someday.
Writing about life and silly stuff has kept me going in the laundry room for so many years. I don’t always need stickers and sunshine, but I need to at least hold my own attention.
So, I had cancer. Both breasts are gone. I had a botched reconstruction and another longer reconstruction that cost me a lot of blood but also resurrected my love of chopped liver. I’m sore, better, and grateful. The end.
Now, on to more important ponderings. When something says it’s “hand-packed” is that legit? Are actual people spooning clams into those tiny tins and sealing them up for distribution? I don’t believe it.
My thoughts from the laundry room. New Sheets.