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.

acceptance choices crazy life health learning life struggle thoughts writing

9 Comments Leave a comment

  1. So, I think of you as a real writer. And real riders don’t often like the mundane blogs that so many people write. There’s no rhythm in the words. There’s no poetry. And when I read your words, I usually hear both. So it does not surprise me that you tossed the other blogs. That said, the people out here also like to provide support. And sometimes getting that through the ether is not a bad thing.

  2. Boob or boobless, I’m just thankin me Lucky stars that I’m reading you again on a regular basis. As far as the clams go, I don’t care if they’re packed by hand or hoof; I an’t eatin no canned clams. Now, fresh outta the shell & deep-fried….Yes’m, PLEASE!

  3. This most recent post, clean, was a moment for me. It offered a sentiment that was not too heavy, nor too light. A kind of sit between the bones, almost hidden, but comforting. Like jelly between vertebrae. Or rather blatant integrity—the kind that arrives as it’s whole self, and provides others with real courage to be their most authentic self, too.

    I wish I had the words to better convey the moment your writing invoked within me, but all I can offer is “I see you and thank you.”

    Wishing you continued healing, and I’m grateful for your post today.


    Sent from my iPhone


  4. Hand-packed food? I don’t believe it unless I see it, and the only place I see it these days is at my favorite ice cream parlor, where I go to indulge my cappuccino chip cravings. That said, I hear you about everything else…including the chopped liver. I hope it’s hand-packed the way they do it at my favorite New York delis. Sending hugs. Write on. ❤️

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