My Name is Jesse and I’m a Gold-Digger

I have a confession to make, and it’s probably going to gross you out. I can just imagine my mom reading this—the gagging sounds she’s going to be making.

But I need a place to work this out, and where better than a glorified diary that can be read by the entire internet?

I have a strange behavior that has developed over the last year—in the months since I moved back to Syracuse…

I’m just gonna say it…

I’ve become a “sleep-miner.”

As in “gold mine.”

As in “mining for gold.”

As in for some f**king reason I’ve started picking my nose in my sleep.

Like I’ll be mid-sleep, mid-dream…and then the dream will start becoming more and more lucid.

And then it’s just me, awake, staring at the ceiling with my finger in my nose.

It’s very strange and I feel dirty.

I googled “I pick my nose in my sleep” to find support.

The most relevant hit was from a website called (I’m not making this up, I will link below): F MY LIFE

http://www.fmylife.com

There is a place to “submit your FML” and also a place to “moderate the FMLs”.

I am not making this up.

See?

Do you see this?

It is entirely unhelpful. In fact, in case you’ve missed it, Emily in Canada picks her nose in her sleep, and her husband has taken a video to post to Facebook.

Instead of offering solutions to this subconscious/unconscious behavior, the site provides a place for you to vote “I agree, your life sucks” or to vote “You deserved it.”

The comments range from calls for her to break up with her boyfriend, to calls for her to kill her boyfriend, to calling her a “literal gold digger.”

There are not any helpful comments offering advice or insight on why one might pick their nose in their sleep and how to stop.

I’m sure this nocturnal behavior could be explored in therapy, but I’m not in a therapy mood right now. I’ve gone to therapy on and off since I was 10, and I like to think I know myself well enough to decide when I feel like it’s therapy-time, and I’m not there yet. I’m due probably next year-ish.

I mean, therapy is amazing, and I highly recommend it, even for people who have not had cancer or OCD or PTSD. In fact, if more generally HAPPY people went to therapy, they would probably be more likely to STAY happy people, and we could have an overall HIGHER functioning society.

Of course, not all people can afford therapy, which is another issue in and of itself…I mean look at the world we live in: non-white people are getting shot and killed left and right, white people are personally offended that you asked them to stay inside due to a deadly pandemic, and some just feel like they should storm and riot our government buildings because they’re feeling disappointment similar to the disappointment that many of us felt in 2016, but somehow managed to survive without invading the capitol and propping our stinky feet on Nancy Pelosi’s desk.

WE ALL NEED THERAPY.

BUT THIS IS NOT ABOUT THAT.

THIS IS ABOUT ME, MYSELF, AND MY NOSE.

And my boogers.

Okay?

Anyway, nocturnal nose-picking seems like something I should be able to manage myself.

I regret even searching the internet for a solution.

The internet is entirely unhelpful and I wish it could be gone forever.

Of course, then I could not have this blog.

But somehow I think we’d all be okay without it.

I would probably be way more high-functioning and just pick my nose during the damn DAY like a normal person.

A Passage I Love

Finishing up “UNTAMED” by Glennon Doyle this week.

Wanted to share my favorite passage as we creep up on a full year of so much sadness and dying.

The scary part of dying isn’t the dying itself…it’s the question it brings, and I find myself plagued by that question a lot lately as we lose so many humans.

This passage brings me so much comfort that I might just have it printed and folded up in my jewelry box for safe keeping and frequent reminder.

Now it will be here, too:

Tish has always understood metaphors best. (That thing you feel but can’t see, baby is like that thing you can see.)

…I told her that maybe when we were born, we were poured from our source into these tiny body buckets. When we die, we’ll be emptied back out and return to that big source and to each other. Maybe dying is just returning—back out from these tiny containers to where we belong. Maybe then all the achy separation we feel down here will disappear, because we’ll be mixed together again. No difference between you and me. No more buckets, no more skin…all sea.

“But for now,” I told her, “you are a bucket of sea. That’s why you feel so big and so small.”

“Untamed” by Glennon Doyle

Hope your week is off to a good start.

Love,

Jesse

A poem I like…

Pater noster 

Our Father who art in heaven
Stay there 
And we’ll stay here on earth 
Which is sometimes so pretty 
With its mysteries of New York 
And its mysteries of Paris 
At least as good as that of the Trinity 
With its little canal at Ourcq 
Its great wall of China 
Its river at Morlaix 
Its candy canes 
With its Pacific Ocean 
And its two basins in the Tuileries 
With its good children and bad people 
With all the wonders of the world 
Which are here 
Simply on the earth 
Offered to everyone 
Strewn about 
Wondering at the wonder of themselves 
And daring not avow it 
As a naked pretty girl dares not show herself 
With the world’s outrageous misfortunes 
Which are legion 
With legionaries 
With torturers 
With the masters of this world 
The masters with their priests their traitors and their troops 
With the seasons 
With the years 
With the pretty girls and with the old bastards 
With the straw of misery rotting in the steel of cannons.

—Jacques Prevert

wish I could say I’ve always known this poem and didn’t just learn it from HBO’s The Sopranos. But alas…

Enjoy the rest of your weekend ❤️

Trust You to Death

Matt likes to watch chiropractor videos on YouTube.

I get to be the test subject.

I often find my arms pretzeled around my head, insisting aloud that I’m very, very, VERY not sure of this thing he’s about to do, but he says I should really just trust him, and I can’t argue with that.

A good relationship needs trust.

Please trust that I’m really feeling like maybe you’re going to snap my neck” is often what I’m thinking, and it puts me in a real tough spot because I’m also trying to work on trusting MYSELF, and trusting my body.

“I just need you to keep your hand on your hip and push back against my hand, trust me.”

“I just need you to know that my body doesn’t twist like that. Trust me.”

“Just trust me.”

“I’m really, really, kind of completely terrified. Please trust me.”

“I trust you, but you should trust me.”

And so on, and so forth. In circles.

A simple hug likely ends with a warning: “TAKE A DEEP BREATH…”

And he squeezes so tightly that my back crackles like crushed rock candy.

Sometimes there is no warning, and the squeeze makes me pee a little and I wonder if it’s the incontinence before death.

I love Matt very much, and I know he would never hurt me or try anything that he didn’t think he could do.

Still, I often walk into the dark bedroom at night, ready to fall peacefully asleep to the sounds of “Forensic Files,” and can’t help but feel my heart drop when I see the little glow of light from the cell phone on Matt’s side of the bed.

As I creep closer, I can hear it:

“…when you do this, gravity is going to help take it and traction open the upper back into the middle back and shoulder blades region…”

There is a tingle up my spine.

I like my spine. I hope it will be okay.

We’ve had honest conversations about this before. I tell him that sometimes I am afraid for my life. But I know he is a smart person. After all, he has a degree in physics—not exactly an anatomy badge (or a chiropractic license), but he is, at least, a man of science.

So I tell him I am relying on him to please, please, please just never attempt anything that could even remotely go wrong.

“Of course! I love you. I would never, ever do something that could hurt you. Half the time, I just want to try it out so I can teach you to do it to ME!

….You know, Jesse, you really just need to trust me.”

I trust you.

To death.

My death.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Goldfish Weight

OMG Hi. I’m alive.

I survived the end of 2020 and the beginning of its twin, 2021.

I realize it’s been a minute since I last posted…I’ve been so bad.

Like, for real, it’s been two months, and I know, I know. You’re just now realizing what was missing from your year so far:

It’s not socializing with friends…

It’s not going to the theater…

It’s not a genuine feeling of safety and confidence that the world is gonna be okay and we aren’t going to continue being killed off one by one by disease, violence, and hate…

IT’S ME.

I was missing.

What was missing was me.

And if y0u’re wondering why I’m being so repetitive and blocky and short in my phrases, it is because I would literally rather stick a pen into my eye than write in this blog right now.

BTW guess what? I have over 100 gel pens.

I’ve been avoiding this first post back like the plague (too soon?) Cuz I feel bad that it’s been so long and I know that once I start again I have to keep in a good flow or else I’ll drop off again…

So here are my excuses for going MIA:

Before Christmas I was in kind of a sad, weird “Covid funk” where I ate lots of rainbow goldfish and contemplated the meaning of life all day until my boyfriend—I’m just gonna start calling him “Matt” because I feel like a thirteen year-old every time I say “my boyfriend”—came home from work and I cried because all I did all day was eat rainbow goldfish and feel sorry for myself and he has a job.

You can ask him. It’s true.

I’m currently working to shed the goldfish weight.

Then right after Christmas we got a puppy and he’s a dream, but he’s also very needy…because he is a puppy. If you follow me on social media, you’ve seen him. A lot. You probably unfollowed me to get away, and are only reading this new post because you forgot you’re on my mailing list, and now you’re gonna unsubscribe, and then I’m gonna get a notice that you unsubscribed and I’m gonna wonder if I was mean to you in high school or in Target last week, and it’s gonna be a whole thing.

Speaking of high school, I was thinking about my senior year the other day on “World Cancer Day”…where the whole world comes together to…celebrate? Cancer?

I dunno, I’m not really sure what you do on that day so I just posted a pic of me looking pathetic and sh** during treatment and was like “this is me I am strong.”

(And like, don’t worry, you don’t have to be like, “awww Jesse is making fun of herself because at heart she doesn’t truly believe she’s strong”. That’s not the case, though. I know I am strong—I’m a proud carrier of my “cancer card” and I will always lord it over your psoriasis and seasonal allergies).

What the actual f**k was I talking about, though…

Oh. High school. Yeah I was remembering how I heard that this kid, who shall remain nameless—BUT YES, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW THAT YOU DID THIS—

This kid sold fancy lollipops in the cafeteria to “raise money for Jesse.” But I dunno, it must’ve paid for prom or some sh** because I didn’t see any of that money.

However, I am very, very patient. And you—-you know who you are—whenever you would like to a) apologize for using me and get right with God or b) pay the f**k up, I’m back in the 315 watching Cobra Kai, and anxiously awaiting your call.

**(I’m also aware of a similar ruse in the Syracuse community theater scene, although with that one, I don’t have names or specifics)

Also, guess what? I am learning self-defense. Matt is a black belt and is teaching me, even though every 30 seconds I go “owww, my ankle” in a really annoying voice.

Cobra Kai!!!

Cobra. Kai.

2021 has given me a lot of things I didn’t need, but am happy to take.

For example, I never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER. Thought. “I wonder what happened to every single character in the ‘Karate Kid’ movies.”

But I discovered the answer in 2021. (I know it is technically a 2018 series. I just found it this year, k?)

And I found Russell Stover sugar free peanut butter cups, too.

Didn’t need ‘em. Happy to have ‘em!

Oh. Oh. OH. And this song about dinosaurs in love that I just heard yesterday and almost cried?

YEAH I DIDN’T NEED THESE THINGS.

BUT I LIKE THEM. I’LL TAKE THEM.

Alright, I’m gonna wrap this up because it’s not really going anywhere. I gotta go watch Sopranos. (Tony just whacked Ralphie for setting his horse on fire, and now he’s trying to pin it on New York.)

So yeah, I’ve been avoiding this post because it is the “band aid post.” It’s the “I’m sorry, I’ve been bad about posting, so now that I’m posting again, I’m gonna be better about posting” post.

Band aid ripped.

I’m back.

And maybe…just maybe

My next post will have a clear, concise beginning, middle and end.

And a point.

HERE’S DEWEY:

Dear Old Friend,

You’ll never read this, which begs the question: what is the point? 

And I suppose there is no point.  

My head has just been swirling since I heard the news this afternoon, and I thought that maybe I’d feel better getting my thoughts on a page.

Maybe I’ll light a candle and read it aloud, later.

Just this past week a friend sent me a silly meme.  He wrote, along with it, “Jess, why do I feel like this will resonate with you?

It was two of the Powerpuff Girls, their hair sopping wet, pouting at each other.  The caption: me at age 9 saying goodbye to the girl I met on the beach that I would never see again.

I laughed because it was true.  I’ve always been a sentimental person, and I remember all of my friends, however long or short our friendships—even though, many of them, I’d have no idea where to find, even with social media at my fingertips. 

The 1-day beach friends.  The McDonald’s PLAYPLACE friends.  The theater camp friend who made me snort Dr. Pepper out of my nose…my best friend from children’s choir, who loathed choir practice as much as I did.

And you, of course.  My first “boyfriend.”

Well…I suppose you never were my boyfriend—at least not knowingly. 

After learning, at age five, that it would be illegal for me to marry my cousin, Sammy, I decided to marry you, instead.

That was why I followed you around at our parents’ boring parties.  You were fun, and intelligent, and, of course, my future husband.  

You were a year older than I was, a full six years old, and so very mature in my eyes.  I considered myself lucky to have you!  I’d pick out my best and most twirliest dress to wear when I knew I was going to see you.  I had to make the perfect impression.

You knew how to pop the Pepsi can tabs at the parties without cutting your fingers, which was most impressive.  You opened mine for me, and listened to me dawdle on and on about how I was going to be the head majorette in the 4th of July parade even though I didn’t know how to twirl a baton and was a goddamned liar. 

And when I’d stop talking for a few minutes, you would teach me things about math and science and we’d run around until the adults inevitably said “slow down, you two!”

I was so sad when you moved away.  Over the next few years, whenever I got dragged to a party, I’d ask if you were going to come, and the answer became “no” more often than not.  

On rare occasion, usually in the summer time, the answer would be “yes.”  One summer, at the lake, we rode in a boat, and you showed me how to fish.  You liked a band called “Slipknot,” and at the end of the day, you gave me your screen name. I remember it by heart, to this very day.  

Then lots of years went by.  You got into a school in the city.  I got very sick.  

During my recovery, I looked you up on Facebook and sent you a message.  I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me, but you said “of course I do!  How are you, little Jesse!”

I thought to myself, maybe I’ll become a Broadway actress next year and we will reunite in the city, and fall in love, and my five year old self would’ve been right all along.

But we didn’t.  Fate had other plans.

Last I knew, you were living overseas.  Multi-lingual and as intelligent as I always knew you to be.

I live in our hometown again, since the pandemic, and I have thought of you from time to time—I’ve had so much time to peel back the pages of my childhood memories.  

You don’t have social media anymore, but I found you on LinkedIn about two months ago.  Your face is more mature, but it is still quite the same face from my memory.

I’ve only just started monkeying around with LinkedIn, and I thought, “shall I add him? Send him a message and say, ‘I know this is strange, but it’s me: Jesse.  You used to open my Pepsi cans, and I was in love with you!’”

But I didn’t.  The fragile ego in me thought “better not.  He looks awfully professional and awfully important.  He’d be far too busy.” 

I’m very sorry that I didn’t.  I had no idea you, too, were drowning in the sea of unemployment that this violent pandemic has sunk us in.

I don’t pretend that my reaching out would have changed what happened.  I just know that I’ve felt so hopeless and purposeless and just plain sad through all this, and now I know you were, too.

Maybe our commiseration would’ve brought you some comfort.

Maybe just the realization that your long lost “girlfriend” across the sea still remembers our talks and our memories.  Still remembers your screen name, and your favorite band.  

Maybe knowing, even in your darkest, most loneliest moments, that someone so long gone from your life now, still held you in such high regard…maybe for a moment, you would’ve felt better.  The smallest moment can sometimes cause the biggest shifts in perspective.

Your childhood friend loves you very much.  Even though it’s been so long, she wishes she could still reach out.  Even if it was just to say “thank you for teaching me to fish.”  

When I look back on the people in my life, you are one of my favorites.  

You’ll always be one of my favorite people.  

My heart breaks. I hope this pandemic is over soon.

Love,

Jesse

Introduction {To My Insanity}

About a month or so ago I had “Hamilton” playing in the car. And while I drove with Lin Manuel rapping on and on about “legacy, legacy, legacy,” I started thinking about what that means for all the lay-people like myself who aren’t fighting a revolution or dueling in Weehawken. Or like, writing the American Constitution.

I was struck by the idea that I don’t really know what I have to leave behind, and I’m due to be 30 years old in March.

Now, I don’t mean to be morbid. I know it’s not typical to really have a legacy until later in your life–but when you’ve been as far out on the diving board of life as I have, you start thinking about that earlier (and, of course, 2020 hasn’t really made us feel like we’re gonna live forever).

I realized, yes, I’d have friends and family who would tell stories about how smart and charming and witty I was.

And I’d have this blog (until the website bill stopped getting paid–more on this later).

But what could I have to truly commemorate my being here on this sad little planet?

Many of you have told me you think I ought to write a book, and it’s always been my intention to do so at some point in my life. I’d always imagined “at some point in my life” being “at some point when the world has discovered my genius and Simon and Shuster are offering me a million dollars for my autobiography.”

And then I thought…

Books. Internet. Electronics.

E-books.

Oh, my god, I could write and self-publish an E-Book.

And so that is what I’m going to do to commemorate my 30th birthday! Not necessarily for you, the reader. More for me, so I can die knowing I left a true legacy of “whiny white girl” behind me.

I am writing an E-Book, and you can expect it sometime mid-spring, likely on Amazon.

I’ll keep you abreast of all the deets.

“Breast.”

Ha.

So anyway, I’ve been working on it, and I decided to share today the introduction to my Untitled E-Book! I am censoring the swear words for this website because this is a family friendly blog (kind of?).

But the book is going to be uncensored and probably a bit SAUCY.

Like, the first chapter so far is mostly me musing about how the first 5 years of my life I associate with getting yelled at by my mom for having my hands down my pants.

Jesse Rose, where are your hands, young lady!?

I’m sure Freud would have something very sexy to say about this, but in all honesty, it was just very warm down there, and I found it comforting.

But I digress.

After this little sneak peak to my E-Book project, I am going to have a button that makes me very uncomfortable.

But, alas, I started this website two years ago when I had a very well-paying job, and now it is “the worst of times” and it’s time to renew my website…which costs a pretty penny.

If you enjoy my writing and find yourself financially capable of kicking in a dollar to help me renew my website, I would be forever grateful, and would honor you with a “thank you” in my E-Book, entirely separate from the page about baby Jesse putting her hands in her pants.

If you are unemployed like me, or having trouble making ends meet, please do not donate.

If you can only afford to help one cause this holiday season, please DON’T make it this one.

End of begging. I promise to never ask again. My shenanigans will always be free.

Until my E-Book is done. That’ll cost ya.

BUT, ALAS, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO:

__*__

Introduction (Jesse’s Untitled E-Book Insanity)

I’ve dreaded my 30th birthday since the day I turned 25.  

It’s, like, the “thing” you do.  

You act like you’re so ashamed to turn 30 because I guess it’s officially when you start being considered “old” by “young people.”

“Ew, don’t invite Stacie…she’s, like…30.”

You know what I mean, right?  As if Stacie had a choice in the matter?

Stacie had ZERO choice.  Stacie is still the same person she’s always been, except she’s probably just BETTER and wiser and OVER your 22 year-old BS because she remembers when she was 22 and stupid. 

But I digress.

I don’t actually know who Stacie is, I made her up and I’m a little irritated with myself for spelling it “ie” and not just “y”.  Something about “a-c-i-e” bothers my eye.  

STOP, STOP, IT’S NOT ABOUT STACY OR STACIE.

It’s about how somewhere along the line, getting older stopped being cool, and we’ve just accepted it as, like, a “rite of passage.”  It’s when you start getting birthday cards that say, “WOW, ANOTHER BIRTHDAY!?” on the front.

It used to be cool to get older.  Like, remember when we WANTED to be the older kids, and go to the school dances, and touch butts under the bleachers and shit?

And like, we couldn’t wait to be old enough to walk around the mall by ourselves and buy copious amounts of thongs even though they’re about as comfortable as a bicycle seat to the vagina? (I have personal experience in this matter and it is not a pleasing sensation).

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, we get this sure sense that it’d be best to just not have anymore birthdays…

I certainly did.  As I said, from 25 on, I felt like a ticking time bomb.  Like I only had 4 more years to become “successful” and “perfect” and “beloved among my peers” before I’d turn back into a pumpkin.

Like, at age 30 I would immediately become fat and matronly and unf***able and dried up  (sorry, Ma).  

Basically, I can only describe it as this overwhelming feeling that I’d better be successful before I start the next decade of my life, because after that, I was no longer going to be beautiful and physically desirable , and therefore, I’d have trouble getting ahead in life.

Really, truly.  That is what I’ve boiled the feeling down to. It’s an old societal belief that runs so deep it’s encoded into our female DNA.

And, of course, there are a slew of other paranoias and psychological traumas that feed into it–and we’ll get to that.  

But what I’m starting to come around to–what I’m really only just starting to grasp…is that I think perhaps my entire twenties were an intricate obstacle course designed specifically to exorcise the demons of my childhood and teenage years.  

Because I started my twenties under the impression that my biggest demon was the cancer that ravaged my body for a year and a half in my late teens, and once I “got over” that, I’d be a fully formed person!  But you know what I keep hearing?

I keep hearing that illness manifests from something else.  Something psychological or intrinsic.  Something often unfelt and lying dormant.  

Like, that cancer demon?  He showed up because some smaller demons were already there, and they were like, “hey cancer, we’ve been haunting this b***h for years, and she still hasn’t caught on, so you should come check her out.  She’s got big tits and no spine–she’ll def let you take over for a bit.”

Yeah…I’m starting to think my biggest demon was propped up by a bunch of little crony demons doing Jets/Sharks dances all over my f***ing cerebellum.

But enough about demons.  Instead of falsely psychoanalyzing your own mind, grasping at straws in an attempt to put together the puzzle of your true “self,” it is widely accepted that therapy is the best course of action to work through the ash-heap of your past.

You should do this.  You should 100% go to therapy because it is amazing and even if you don’t feel less crazy when you’re done, you’ll at least feel like someone else held up the weight of your “crazy” for an hour or so.

I, however, have decided to write this book.  

This book is my new therapy.  This book is me exorcising the demons of my first thirty years, so that I may be reborn like a f***ing phoenix or some sh**, and be a sick-nasty thirty year-old BAMF (preferably one who never wrinkles and stays young-looking forever).

This book is me making it “cool” to be older and wiser again. 

It is me, giving you the weight of my crazy for 200 pages or so.  

Hope ya been liftin,’ betch.

__*__

When “What Are the Chances” Means Nothing

This week alone, I’ve diagnosed myself with three cancers: brain cancer, melanoma of the eye, and cervical cancer.

I get this way whenever I have doctors appointments. I had an eye exam yesterday, and during my last two eye exams I was diagnosed with a pseudo-tumor and a nevus of the eye, consecutively.

The latter is simply a freckle on the eye that one has keep out of the sunlight and generally keep an ‘eye’ on (ha) so that it doesn’t progress into melanoma.

The former, the pseudo-tumor, was a bit more…daunting? It presented as swelling of my optic nerve (we later learned this was likely an effect of chemo, as it occurred a month after my last treatment).

But, of course, to save the asses of the PHDs, I endured a brain MRI (LOUD AF), a spinal tap (which I strangely enjoyed), an awful medication called “acetozolomide” that made the simple task of walking up a slight hill nearly impossible, and the “Maleficent” of all neuro-opthamologists.

But brain-tumor testing yielded no brain tumor…thus, a “pseudo-tumor.” A term I only wish I had made up.

I am guilty of letting a few too many years go by without going to the eye doctor. I don’t like doctors, and I try to limit my visits to the ones that seem the most important (don’t even ask me the last time I went to the dentist). And with a make-up caboodle’s-worth of free contact lenses from my ex-boyfriends mother who worked for an eye doctor, I stretched those lenses to last until now. So…four years.

Which means, yes. The only reason I even entertained going to the eye doctor again was because I ran out of contact lenses from my ex-boyfriend’s mom. Irresponsible, I know. But I’m getting better and better about going to the doctor, and that’s all I can do.

Regardless, I was certain I was about to head into news of either a brain tumor, a pseudo tumor, or melanoma of the eye. None of which, it turns out, I have.

What were the chances anyway?

Next week I have to go to the gynecologist. Always fun. Always delightful.

And having received abnormal pap results in the past–although very common in women–I’ve been prepping myself for cervical cancer.

Silly? Yes, probably.

What are the chances?

Hmm. That’s often the phrase I’m presented with when I express on any given Monday that I believe I have a brain tumor, melanoma of the eye, and cervical cancer.

“Those chances are slim. Those cancers are rare. Besides, what are the chances you get struck with another cancer?

But that is entirely the point.

I have had cancer. And one day in 2008 I whispered to myself, “what are the chances this is nothing more than a sore hip?

The chances were slim.

But it was more than a sore hip.

Ask any cancer survivor and I’m sure they’ll agree. One of the only things worse than living with the fact that you have cancer is the feeling you had when the rug was pulled out from underneath your feet. When you’d been preparing yourself for the likelier chance, and you were granted the unlikely.

When you became the “slim” in “slim to none.”

You remember that always because it was the exact moment you lost control. You never want to lose control again. And “What are the chances” means nothing.

So, you try (however silly it may seem) to prepare for the worst in all cases. You ready yourself for brain cancer, and melanoma, and cervical cancer. Because what are the chances?

It doesn’t matter. There is a chance. And you will not lose control again.

Which brings me, finally, to the proper point of this post: you.

I’d like to ask you the question, that you–specifically those of you who’ve never faced debilitating disease before–often ask me.

What are your chances?

What are the chances that you or your loved ones will get coronavirus in the coming months?

I’ll tell you, they are a lot more likely than my chances of being diagnosed with cervical cancer next week, and yet here I sit mentally preparing myself for the worst.

And there many of you sit at the pub, or at brunch, or preparing your normal Thanksgiving feast for twenty.

I’ve mostly held back my “cancer survivor’s view” of the coronavirus pandemic in favor of the more typical one: do your part, wear a mask, rah, rah, rah, stay at home.

But now I’m here to say this. I say it not as a Democrat. I say it not as a Republican. I say it without deference or feeling for Donald Trump or Joe Biden or Queen Elizabeth or Joe the Plumber: the control you might feel you’re having exerted upon you by being asked to wear a mask is absolutely nothing compared to the control you will LOSE in the midst of serious disease.

It’s the same loss of control we, as cancer survivors, felt in the moment of our diagnosis. The same loss of control we fear so vehemently that instead of looking forward to getting a new pair of glasses, we try to be mentally prepared for melanoma of the eye.

That loss of control then gives way to a loss of dignity.

Your bodily functions, however personal or embarrassing, are now charted and monitored and are more than just your own business.

Not being honest about your last bowel movement could possibly kill you.

The color of your pee is now of utmost importance and a matter of life and death.

At least you are in isolation, so the only people exposed/interested in the consistency of your bile are the nurses risking their lives to care for you.

It’s disgusting. Yes, disgusting. And humiliating. So disgusting and humiliating in fact that you can’t help but feel as though you’re nothing more than the sum of your creatnine and bilirubin count.

You’re a biology project.

At least when I reached this point, I had my mother and father there in the room to hug me and remind me who I was.

I can’t say this would’ve been as effective via Zoom.

I’m not trying to find out.

I’m going to stay inside. I’m going to wear my mask when I can’t. I’m not going to have a big holiday celebration.

So that my chances decrease.

I have control. Of those chances.

Not total control. But some control.

I’m not an influencer. I don’t believe my little rant here will reach millions. I have a nice little following here, of which I’m grateful. No matter the walk of life you come from.

But I have no delusions of how many people I can reach with this message. I do hope, however, that some of you will pass this on.

I don’t want you to die from coronavirus. I don’t want your loved ones to die from coronavirus.

When this is all over, those who still believe that masks did nothing to help, that social distancing was meaningless…I welcome your opinions. I welcome your “those masks were stupid” messages.

And if somehow, someday, it’s proven that these precautions were without effect, I will gladly listen to your ‘I told you so’s” and I’ll even respond by telling you how right you were, but how glad I am that we were careful anyway.

Please be responsible. Please be careful. Please wear a mask even if you think it’s pointless. Please reconsider your holiday gatherings.

There is more “loss of control” at stake than just the feeling of the wind on your chin in a public place.

And your chances of knowing this greater loss grow increasingly likely each day.