I told myself I would force myself to write something today. The problem is I have nothing to ‘say’ but I have, like, 3 billion things to SAY.

Like, for SAYING’s sake, I thought I had a blackhead on my upper lip because I felt something stinging it, and in retrospect it was probably just a cut or irritation, but once I decided it was a blackhead I just sat there and squeezed and picked and poked and stabbed at it and finally it became a giant wound that’s scabbed over and definitely looks like a giant herpe.

Which I guess…I GUESS…if I needed something to ‘say’…I could tie the previously described scenario into a great big beautiful metaphor about idle minds. Idle minds make trouble where there is none? Something like that?

Oh, oh, and Arnold Rothstein told Nucky Thompson on Boardwalk Empire that man’s greatest flaw is his inability to just sit quietly in a chair. Something like that. It blew my mind, because I’ve been very zen and contemplative lately because what the hell else do I have to do?

But like…do you get it? Like, why can’t we just sit still and shut up? Like birds and dogs and shit sit there for so long doing nothing and they seem way happier than us.

And like, a cactus? A cactus is alive, don’t forget!

I lost the point.

The point is, don’t pick at your skin because you are bored or you will give yourself a giant herpe-lookin’ thing. Don’t go looking for trouble where this is none.

Oh my, god f***ing BRILLIANT, Jesse, you SAID something AND you ‘said’ something.



Tidal Waves: A Brief New Moon Reflection

Last night I was thinking a lot about tidal waves, and how I am nothing to a tidal wave. I might as well be a tiny snail, but also I could be the strongest, tallest person in the world. I would still be nothing to a tidal wave.

Like Stephen Crane in The Open Boat said. Something about man, something something “nature does not regard him as important” something something something “would not maim the universe by disposing of him”.

Drops in the bucket. Unique fractals, sure, but all drops in the bucket that is never short of more drops.

And then I thought maybe it would be very poetic to die of “tidal wave.”

Surely nicer than “she died of cancer”, “she died of car crash”, she died of Covid 19,” “she died of broken heart,” “she died of organ failure.”

She died of tidal wave. Gravity and the Sun and the Moon conspired together to form a wave that would rip her from the shore, plunge her back into the earth, where maybe she will become a tiny sea star or a mollusk or a crab, or maybe she’ll wait a little while and just luxuriate being back in the bucket.

The shape of a tidal wave is like a ghost with his arms up chasing Scooby.

I should not like to meet a ghost.

Unless the ghost is my grandmother, and only if she is a happy ghost.

To clarify, a happy ghost would be a ghost that is just perhaps there to say “hi, hello, I see you trying down here…”

To further clarify, my grandmother who is deceased already. Not the currently living one.

And to further clarify, I should not like to meet a tidal wave either.

I know it’s very confusing.

I couldn’t sleep, and was thinking about fear and tidal waves and thought that maybe they were not so scary after all, that they might be a very meaningful way to go if you got to choose. Although, if you got to choose, it would not really be a tidal wave, because then it would be up to YOU and not a conspiracy from the moon.

To further further clarify, I should not like to die. Not yet. I am okay. I am great, although I am tired and have menstrual cramps and I wish a lot of things.

I guess what I mean to say is I am going to die someday and so are you, and perhaps “these uncertain times” are the first time you’ve truly had to face that inevitability, and I feel for you. It is a daunting realization to grapple with for the first time.

I remember my first time. Very bittersweet. Bitter because who wants to go?

And sweet because I came to realize that the person I’d miss the most is me.

But yes, tidal waves.

Understanding the Crock-pot

I’m here today to get something off my chest…something that’s been eating away at me through weeks of tedium, months of quarantine, and years on a presidential rollercoaster of which I cannot seem to get off.


I don’t get it. I don’t understand them. People love these things. People give them as gifts— wait, no—


I think for a while I subconsciously blocked crock-pots out of my brain completely because they seemed like something everyone who turned thirty suddenly needed, and as I approached the big “three-oh” (now in monthly increments), they loomed omnipresent like a little dark cloud over my sad, misguided life, teetering ever more and more each day to a drone of domesticity and book-clubs and baby showers.

I could never let crock-pots in.

But as I look back on my crock-pot-less past, I believe it may go even deeper than this, if you can believe it.

“Turn the crock-pot on for me at four,” my mother would say. Or “I’ve got something in the crock-pot for dinner tonight.”

The word sent shudders up my spine.

I didn’t want to touch the crock-pot, let alone eat from it! So no, I will not turn the crock-pot on at four, and I shall make myself a P, B and J because I refuse to touch OR eat anything that comes out of a device titled CROCK-POT.



“Crock”=just a few letters off from “crotch”

There are just so many awful word-associations, and I refuse to believe there isn’t a more suitable name at the ready besides “crock-pot.”

Imagine my dismay—my CHAGRIN, if I may be so obliged as to insert a ten-dollar SAT- word—when, as a bridesmaid to my dear friend at her bridal shower, it was my job to unwrap her gifts and hand them to her so that they may be showcased and photographed and fawned over by heavily Mimosa-ed middle-aged women as though they were something they had never before seen in their lives, and items which only the bride could ever deserve to possess.

Imagine my CHAGRIN, as I ripped off the shiny white foil to reveal a bulky, heavy, tasteless box that could only be home to one singular device: a dreaded, tacky crock-pot.

For joy! I thought, eyes a-rolling. A crock-pot for you to make a lazy, mushy, goopy dinner for your lazy, mushy, goopy new husband in your lazy, mushy, goopy new marriage!

A crinkle of disgust in my nose, I hauled the large box over my head and placed it in the arms of the bride, who held it high to be adored and fawned over by its adoring, undeserving fans.


They’ll never take me alive. I’d sooner boil my own skin in a REGULAR pot of water on a REGULAR old stove than own a crock-pot.

You know what crock-pots are sometimes called?



I am a godd**n American and I want it NOW. FAST. NOT SLOW. FAST! FAST! FAST!

I’m more than happy with my Lean Cuisines and MSG-filled Ramen noodles. If they keep me from becoming one more statistic—one more bright young woman fallen prey to the domestication of the crock-pot…then by golly, I’ll eat them every day for the rest of my (probably-shorter-due-to-eating-Lean-Cuisines-and-Ramen-Noodles-every-day-for-the-rest-of- my-life) life.

I cannot tell you what a weight it is off my shoulders to have these feelings out in the open. And now that I’ve gotten them out there and cast light onto this demon, I can see for certain that I do NOT simply have an irrational anger toward a kitchen appliance stemming from my fear of turning thirty.


Because like, thirty is the new twenty, right?

Never mind.

Back to crock-pots.

The conclusion of crock-pots.

I do not like crock-pots. I do not support crock-pots. I do not condone crock-pots.

I do not like them hear nor there, I do not like them anywhere, such as in my kitchen, and at my friend’s bridal shower, and in catalogues, and ESPECIALLY…

Especially not in online ads that are clearly geared toward women approaching a certain age.

I rest my case.




It seems to me we spend our entire childhoods wondering who we will be.

Will we be beautiful, tall, successful, happy, rich, married, etc, etc.

We ask these questions and say we want to be a This or we want to be a That. We play MASH and determine we will live in a mansion with Aaron Carter and drive a blue punch-buggy.

We work hard to get good grades, good SAT scores, good everything so we will get in to a good college and be good and do everything good, so that when college is done, our lives will be good.

It seems to me that once we grow up—once we get the degree, get the things, find the cow as white as milk, the slipper as pure as gold—once we get our wish, or alas, we do not get our wish…there is a strange reversal.

We start wondering, and this time it’s more of an investigation because this time there are solid clues—real evidence. We start wondering who we were.

What were we thinking?

Why did we do that?

Why did we want that?


I have spent quarantine-time up at my childhood town in Upstate New York.

It has been both lovely and strange.

I have nothing but time…time to go through old boxes in my bedroom, time to go through plastic, dust-covered bins full of photographs in the basement. My boyfriend, who also lives in town, (and who I conveniently met three and a half weeks before quarantine began), has now sat through many dinners with my family and heard countless stories about me and my sister growing up:

“Jesse used to run upstairs and lock herself in her bedroom when we tried to sing happy birthday to her.”

“Jackie refused to face the audience during her 4th grade chorus concert.”

“Jesse touched the burner on the stove to see if it was hot the first time she made a grilled cheese.”

We all laugh.

But now with all this free time, I really, truly think about these things. I wonder why I couldn’t stand the attention of a “Happy Birthday” chorus. In a shyness all her own, why Jackie could not stand the audience watching her sing in a chorus concert.

I search my face in piles of old photographs for a sign of what I was thinking on that day in history. Was this the phase where I worried constantly about my pimples, or was I struggling with math…why did I love that T-shirt? Why that haircut?

Looking at a few, I wonder had you even met a black person yet? Had you had a black classmate? A black schoolteacher? When did you first know it was better to have your skin?


On HBO, Lorraine Bracco leads Tony Soprano, the famous, fictional mob boss, through therapy. Uncle June used to tease him about not making varsity, and why was his mother so cold and volatile and how has it impacted him? Why is he broken today because of who he was yesterday?

How will he ever stop fainting at the sight of sliced meat after watching his father cut off Mr. Satriale’s pinky?


I sit at a table with my mother and three of my aunts, listening to them talk about their parents (my grandparents). What they used to say to them. How it made them feel. What they said to “you and not me”, “he was that way with me and X”, “she’d say that to me, too”, “he never was that way with Y”.

“I remember a moment on my first trip home from college—” says Mom, “X, do you know what I’m going to say?”

X remembers, and she remembers how she sat on the front stairs waiting for her in the freezing cold and how later on Papa wouldn’t sit with her at the table. How that made her feel.

How that made Mom feel.

These women—these strong, influential women of my life—remember these tiny needles from their past, and they work through their memories and words to figure out how these needles lay in the giant haystacks that have become their lives.

It makes me all the more curious about my own needles, and I think I must have a lot of needles.

Nearly four months outside of my New York City life, I have enough space to speculate on my world there—my behaviors and habits, wants and needs, triumphs and failures. I can see the whole haystack that was my life there.

And here upstate, I have nothing but time to sift through it.


We became someone. We became adults. But who even were we back then?

Birds of the Moment

Daddy Cardinal

When my parents retired, I teased them for turning into bird-watching old people. It seemed like as soon as they had extra time, all they wanted to fill it with was commenting on birds in the yard, setting up birdbaths and bird feeders, and looking up any birds they thought were remarkable.

My dad even liked to break-up bird fights.

When the weather finally changed this spring, and we could finally spend time outside-but-quarantined…I found myself falling Alice-first into the rabbit hole that is birds, and I thought ‘maybe there’s something to this…maybe the reason it happens to retirees is because they’ve finally stopped working long enough to smell the flowers. Taste the spring. Listen to the birds.

Mama Cardinal

Feel the moment.’

Being on unemployment during this pandemic is a lot like being a retiree I suppose—I feel so much more attached to the moment because I have no choice but to notice the moment.

The only difference besides my age is that the promise of a return to the “real world” looms on high. And it is frightening.

There is a cardinal nest in the bush outside my window. The babies are a little less than a week old. Each day I check on them, check on their progress and wonder which will come first:

My departure from the nest, or theirs?


Nurse Dee

I’ve been frustrated with myself for not knowing what to write during this time when all I have is time. The first thing I wrote was sad and dreary and maybe one day I’ll share it when times are better. But today I decided to share one of my favorite nurse stories from my illness, to celebrate the gown-and-masked heroes on the front lines!

My last chemotherapy was in late October 2009 and a week later—as was my custom—I landed back in the hospital with a fever.  The fevers guaranteed me at least three nights in the hospital, and I’d come to just plan on them as part of my treatment schedule.

I’d schlepped and slept through the two full days of my stay and was looking at what would hopefully be my VERY last night in the hospital for the ENTIRE TEN MONTH PROCESS!   

I’d been preparing for this day for weeks: crossing squares out on calendars, making a concerted effort to be nicer to everyone (even though my final treatment had begun with a botched port-access that left me stabbed and bleeding from the right boob—I clenched my teeth and powered through).  I came prepared for Ifosfamide with a tube of Icebreakers Ice Cube gum, because the first 10 minutes of each drip tasted like gasoline and pennies.

My only true “lash-out” had been at the hospital volunteer who’d woken me up three times on Halloween morning to ask me if I wanted to trick-or-treat around the hospital with the children.  In my defense, I was 18 GD years old, and had already politely declined TWICE.

But finally I’d landed at my last night in the hospital, and I’d been assigned one of my favorite nurses:  Nurse Detria!  She was the first nurse I remembered from my very first chemo—I’d woken up on Christmas morning to find her arranging presents for me and my sister at the bottom of the bed.  She was wearing a Barbie shirt, and my mom asked her if her name was Barbie.

“Nope.  I just like Barbie!”

Bitch,  I like Barbie, too!!!!  I was sold.

Having her as my last overnight nurse was like truly coming full circle.

I decided I wanted the night to go by as quickly and painlessly as possible, and what better way to do that than to just go the f**k to sleep!?

The only thing standing between me and a deep sleep was a cocktail of 6-8 pills.  They sat in a tiny paper cup at the foot of my bed.  My mom quietly read a book in the corner of the room, and Detria (Dee, as we’d called her) had checked my vitals just a few minutes ago and had gone to do her other busy Nurse things.

Left to my own devices, I decided that the best thing to do was to just throwback the entire cup of pills all at once.  It’d be like knocking back the whole pack of Tic-Tacs in one gulp…right?

I tossed back the cup of pills, took a big-ass swig of Snapple, and pressed the recline button on the bed.

I made it about three minutes before my body began to violently betray me.

And lemme tell you…those pills came back up practically whole.  My mom leapt up from her book, shocked and confused.  She lunged for the pink hospital tub on the counter and brought it over to the bed, doing the best the could to keep her face away from the action as she held it in front of my face.

It was a god.damn.mess.  My body tensed and contorted like the Exorcism of Emily Rose, and I wretched and cried and threw up and screamed “WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME!?! WHY GOD???  WHY???” for at least fifteen minutes.


At some point during the drama, Detria came in to assist and help get things settled and clean, and when the war was over, she sent my mom to the cafeteria for a break while I rested from my ordeal.

After twenty minutes or so, she came back in to check on me.  

“Feeling better?”

Half-asleep, eyes still shut, I muttered, “yes, a lot better.”

“Good!” Detria cheered, placing a new cup of pills in front of me.  “Then you can take these now.”  

I could hear the shuffle of the pills in the cup as they hit the bed-tray.  I opened my eyes just a sliver to check the level of seriousness in her face.  

She was serious.

“Okay,” I managed, grumpily. 

Detria smiled, heading back to the nurse’s stand. Before she closed my door, she peeked back in to order, “And PACE yourself, Miss.”

Over the next 30 minutes, I did pace myself.  I took my pills bit by bit, as “Failure to Launch” tortured me from the hospital TV above the bed.  Torture.

My pills all gone, I reclined the bed again, and nodded back off.  Finally, some peace.

I couldn’t have been asleep long before Detria came in to make sure I’d taken my pills.

“Good girl,” she said. 

I said nothing, just lay on my back, arm bent above my head martyr-style, eyes closed.  “You get some rest now,” she continued.  And then, “you brushed your teeth, right?”

I smiled, sheepishly.  A definite no.

“You just threw your guts up and ya aren’t gonna even brush your teeth?  Girl, where is your toothbrush, I don’t see it in this bathroom.”


“Jesse.  Where is it.”

“…it’s still packed…”

Her eyes got all squinty.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been here three days and haven’t brushed your teeth?”

I smiled again.

“Get up.  Now.  And tell me where the toothbrush is.”

Sighing my biggest, most dramatic sigh possible, I pushed myself up.  I reached over to unplug my pump, hoping she saw how far away from me it was, and how painstakingly difficult it was to reach it.  

I stood in front of the bed and she handed me the baggy with my toothbrush and toothpaste.  

“Alright.  Now roll yourself into that bathroom and brush your teeth, Missy.  I’m going to check on something but I’m coming back and I’m gonna smell your breath and if it still smells like puke and pills I’m not gonna be happy.”

I did as I was told, as quickly as possible, and then rolled myself back to the bed.  

Once I’d plugged myself back in and gotten comfortable, Detria was back.

As promised, she sniffed my breath, and I passed inspection.

“Alright,” she conceded.  “And I’m sure you did your Peridex rinse, too.”

Ahh, Peridex.  One of my many nemeses.  A very powerful, bacteria-killing mouthwash used to prevent mouth sores after chemo, I had rejected Peridex from day one because “it tastes like as***le.”

I don’t know why I cannot tell a lie.  And I don’t know what possessed me to respond so honestly, but I hated Peridex so much, I suppose I just couldn’t hold back.

“Dee.  I never do my Peridex rinse.”

Dee’s eyebrows shot high up on her forehead.

“I don’t have it here!  I don’t even take it with me, Dee!”  I was half-laughing, knowing there was no Peridex to be found in this room.

“Well…aren’t you lucky to be here in the hospital where I can procure some for you!”

“…seriously?”  I sassed, in my best sassy teenager sass.

“Unplug that pump, Miss, and I’ll meet you back in the bathroom.”  

I groaned and pouted, desperate for sleep.   “Can’t I just do the rinse from bed and spit it in a cup?”

She had to see how tired I was…how desperate I was to not be awake…how exhausted my body was from my violent pill battle…right?

“Your legs work just fine.”

Detria came back with the Peridex, and fluffed my pillow while I rinsed.  When I finished, she helped me back into bed, and plugged in my pump for me so I didn’t have to reach so far.

“Thank you, Dee,”  I said.  My thanks surprised even me.  She had driven me crazy for the last hour, forced me to care for myself, and take my pills and brush my teeth and do my nasty rinse and walk on my weak legs.  But on this night, this last night in the hospital, it was clearer than ever: she didn’t do all these things because it was her job.  I mean, sure, it was.  

But it was obvious that more than anything she did it out of genuine care and love.  All of them did, these nurses, this family, or else why would they do it?  Why would they subject themselves to the sadness?  To the bald kids crying and the babies dying, and the cranky teenagers swearing and lashing out?

Nurse Detria pulled the covers up over my shoulders and gave me a kiss on the top of the head.  

“Goodnight, baby.”

PS: THANK YOU TO ALL MY AMAZING NURSES FROM YESTER-YEAR: Brooke, Brian, Melissa, Maria, Deb, Sandy, Dawn, Lilia, Jeanette, Sharon, Anne, Tara, Rachel, Aubrey, and EVERYONE I MISSED ❤


This post will not be liked or enjoyed.

And thats ok.  This is for ME to work through my thoughts.

In 2019 many of the women in my family underwent genetic testing to find out if they had genes that put them at risk to cancer, namely breast cancer.

A few of them found out that yes, they did test positive for some of these genes.  One of them found out that not only did they possess one of these genes, but there was already a small cancer that needed to be addressed.

Of course…this sent MY doctors brains on fire.  My OBGYN wanted to pull me off birth control immediately.  There was talk of sending me to a gene specialist to be tested for several genes and to discuss my options.  

Ultimately I decided that everyone could calm the fuck down until I had my yearly visit with my oncologist.

Which I did this week. 

While I was expecting talk of precautionary measures and what to be on the look out for, I was not prepared for what I was told:

“Due to the genes that are clearly present in your family, and information we’ve discovered in the past year about the long term effects of doxorubicin (—a chemotherapy drug I was blasted with for 10 months), you are at a higher risk for developing breast cancer than we originally thought.  It’s probably best that you begin regular mammograms and chest MRIs within the next two months.”

Well damn. 

In the office, I was shockingly calm and level headed.  I asked good questions.  Proactive questions.  Questions that smart patients looking out for their good health would ask.  I stress this to you because I don’t want the take away from this post to be “Jesse wants to die.”

Jesse doesn’t want to die.

Jesse 100% does not want to die.

But Jesse doesn’t know if she necessarily wants to spend her time “preparing” for an illness that may or may not come, in order to prolong her life.

I have never, ever been able to imagine myself as an old woman.  And I know that a lot of people would probably say they can’t picture themselves being old…but I mean more by that.  

I do not want to live to be 100 years old.

I don’t really want to live to be 80 years old.

This is an unpopular opinion that I have, and most people find it sad.  I, however, do not find it sad.  

I am not married.  I do not have children (and for all intents and purposes, will likely not have them, thanks to chemotherapy).  I have undergone a giant battle already in my lifetime, one that left me already chronically ill.  I don’t think it should be very surprising that I might not want to live to be very old because I would likely be a very sick old person.

So when you tell me I should spend MORE time being tested, MORE time under MRI scans, expose my already dying kidneys to MORE MRI contrast…I cannot help but ask…for what?

“To prolong your life!!!! Make it the longest is can be!”

I ask you again…for what?

“Jesse…this sounds like depression.  You’re depressed.”

I mean, I personally think “I want to die, kill me now” sounds like depression.  

But okay maybe…it’s a lot to chew on.  And does it make me sad to have to do this chewing? 

Yes.  Yes it does.  Sad.  Depression.  I see it.

But do I think I should automatically be labeled depressed because I don’t see the same value in all these “precautionary measures” to prolong my life?  

Again.  No children, not married, already fought cancer and not in 100% good health…hmmm?

“But your family and friends!  Your family and friends love you!”

And I love them too, and they have me.   I’m not suicidal.  I don’t WANT to die.  I’m not actively looking for ways to kill myself faster.  I’m not a smoker, I’m not an alcoholic, I don’t eat Big Macs for every meal.  I do yoga, I meditate, I live my life…

I just don’t want to spend precious time fretting over procedures and chilling in doctors waiting rooms to “maybe prevent breast cancer.”

Cuz guess what?  My body, since cancer, is a boat with several leaks.  The leaks are pretty well patched.  But as soon as you think you’ve patched one up all nice and sturdy, another one might burst.

So yeah, say we spend all that time fretting over breast cancer.  We get a mammogram and chest MRI every year starting now, at age 28.  We get out ahead of it!  We test those suckers over and over again!  And maybe every other mammogram/MRI yields a false positive result, and so we put me through several biopsies that turn out to be a benign ball of tissue.  

And one of those times…we find breast cancer in its early stages and we TREAT IT!!!!

And a week later…my kidneys fail.

Let me break it down like this.

Mid-way through my treatment, my mother took me to a fertility specialist in Syracuse.  When I was first diagnosed, the cancer was spreading too quickly to do anything preventative of fertility.  We could freeze eggs, a process that takes a few weeks…but in those few weeks, the cancer would likely spread to my bone marrow, decreasing my likelihood of survivorship significantly.  

Being 17, I didn’t really give a flying fuck about having kids.

And to be honest, I still don’t really give a flying fuck.

But my mother wanted to make sure she fought for me, because she was a very thorough caregiver.  I think anyone fighting cancer would have a higher survival rate with my mother as their caregiver.  

So she brought me to a fertility specialist at one point mid-treatment just to ask questions and see about possibilities after my treatment.

The manner in which I was spoken to, the pity in the eyes of EVERYONE in that building, and the treatment options they presented to me with the promise of “maybe” saving some semblance of fertility…

I stormed out of the building mid appointment. 

When my mother found me outside, I looked her in the eye and said that if I beat this disease, I would never, ever, spend another moment in a place like that.  I would never, ever, expose myself to extensive “maybe this will help” treatments and tests.  

And I would never waste precious moments surrounded by people who looked at me with such pity.

I can honestly say at this point, I don’t know what I will do.  Women are supposed to have mammograms beginning at age 40.  And at age 40, I was prepared to do so.  As I’ve mentioned, I am not actively trying to die.

I just don’t know that I’m actively trying to prolong a life that maybe was not meant to be as long as others by spending another large percentage of my time in doctors offices and MRI machines.

The jury is out.

The Blame

A few posts back I wrote about not being able to remember myself before having had cancer.  About how my old bedroom was a mausoleum to who I was pre-illness, and sometimes I just wish I could live one day without the weight of cancer survivorship pressing somewhere on my soul.

Nowadays, I don’t really think about who I was before.  I’ve matured enough to know that that’s wasted energy—that the only way to go is forward.  For the most part, I am a mentally happy and stable person.  

However, as I approach another birthday in roughly a month, I find myself reflecting once again on how I have yet to be able to pinpoint what it is I want to be doing with my life.  I have many interests and avenues I feel pulled toward—but a constant hesitance at pulling the trigger and whole-heartedly committing to something.  And I know there’s some sort of mental roadblock holding me back.

The truth is, more therapy would probably do me a world of good in fixing this.  But my last therapist kind of scared me…and I haven’t yet been brave enough to go back.

She began pushing me toward a subject that I refused to acknowledge as valid: that there may be something—however big or small—from BEFORE my cancer diagnosis that continues to hinder me to this day.  

Well…I hadn’t considered this—wouldn’t consider this.  Since December 2008, I have had the PERFECT excuse for depression, anxiety, hardship…anything: “Well I had cancer.”  

I could say that and I didn’t need to say anymore.  It was the perfect excuse and—don’t get me wrong—an ACCURATE excuse.  I still have the recurring high school nightmares where they tell me I have to go back and finish my last few classes because I didn’t attend enough school days in my last semester—a dream just last night that my parents were tricking me into the car to go get dialysis because my kidneys were failing.  

Last month I saw an ad for the annual Young Adult Cancer Survivor Conference held in Colorado.  I attended one year, when they held it in Las Vegas, and it was a very good thing for me.  I priced out how much it would cost for me to attend this year, and actually approached my parents with the monetary figure and asked that for my birthday, they maybe cover half of the cost for me.   

Well of course, life happened, and I found myself needing to prep for other expenses, and so I let the idea of attending again fall by the wayside for this year.  What a shame,  I thought.  It could’ve done me so much good!

And then I thought…would it really?  

I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind that being with a group of cancer survivors roughly my age, sharing and discussing our experiences and struggles would be SO therapeutic and a very positive thing.  But I started thinking…would it really, truly help me launch forward in my life at this point?  Is cancer still really to blame for my mental and emotional hang-ups?

And that’s where I’m dwelling now.  Because it’s hard to tell without being able to remember what it was like to not have had cancer.  To not be stuck with needles every day for a year.  To not watch fellow patients—children—die left and right.  To not watch the rest of my family struggle at my expense, to not become a toxic waste dump of chemicals with big bald head. 

To not feel like an undeserving survivor, because I was so cruel to those around me. 

The easiest thing is to blame any hardship I have in life on those things.  On those experiences: “Well lately I’ve been struggling with XYZ, and that’s probably because when I was in the hospital in ’09 I talked to this girl in the hospital and the next day she died and…blah blah blah.”

The difference between me now and me a year ago is that a year ago, I just wanted to feel better…to feel good.

Now, I want to be better and be good.  And…terrifyingly…that involves acknowledging that there was something a little bit broken about me before I became dangerously ill.  

And no one wants to admit that.  

Regardless of how often we acknowledge the stigma of depression  and anxiety…there IS still a stigma.  I’ve just been able to hide behind my cancer diagnosis for 10 years.  But the truth is: Even if I had not had cancer in ’08-’09, I would probably still struggle from depression.  

I would definitely still struggle from anxiety, given my OCD.  But it’s really hard to admit that my emotional lows are probably just emotional lows…not cancer-related lows.

And I know what you must be thinking: if you’d just nut-up and go back to therapy you could get some solid answers.

But it’s not as simple as that for me.  Because it IS impossible to go to therapy WITHOUT talking about the cancer. Because even if it isn’t the root of my mental hang-ups, it is a HUGE component and contribution…

I mean, one could argue that the fact alone that I’ve used it as my excuse for so long needs working out and unpacking.

There’s just so f***ing much to unpack.  

I will turn 29 on March 25.  That means for roughly 11.5 years (138 months…4,140 days) I have blamed all of my mental and emotional issues on a traumatic experience.  (A traumatic experience that—no doubt—contributed to those mental and emotional issues).

But my previous therapist is correct: there are things from before December 23rd, 2008, that are the root cause of these issues.  The bulk.  The true blame.

Another thing I wrote in previous blogs is that I have always felt like there was something intrinsically different about me, and that when I was diagnosed with cancer, it made sense to me.  

I have to decide if I’m brave enough to find out why.  

Breaking News: Being “Offbeat” Officially Back on Beat

Happy New Year!  I haven’t posted anything new in 2020—I did a tacky thing where I reshared an old post because I’m lazy—so here’s a little something to make up for it.

I’ve been trying to like…brainstorm where I wanna take this blog and how I can commit to writing more content (ooooh “content” 💁🏻‍♀️) that’s not basically just me rambling about my teeth brushing habits, crying on public transit, and then the occasional golden nugget of wisdom from the cancer survivor-drawer.  

But it’s hard for me to keep up with this blog because all I ever truly want to write about are mundane, day-to-day things. 

Like I wanted to write about how last week the muscle under my left boob was really hurting and is it really a muscle at all?  Let’s explore this, is there something sinister under there?  It really hurts to sneeze and it’s sneezing season!

But that’s really boring.  I can’t write a whole post about that (but lets be real I totally could). 

So I got to thinking about all the feedback I’ve gotten on my blog over the years and I thought of something an old high school friend acquaintance said to me once when she cornered me buying ditalini pasta at Tops Friendly Markets.  She was like “OMG I love your writing.  It’s so offbeat.”


But I didn’t say that, I just said what you’re supposed to say back like “oh yeah thanks for reading, and yeah, my writing is offbeat you’re so right, you totally get me, good luck with your screaming 2 year-old.”

And then I thought of something a guy I was “dating” said once: “you write exactly how you speak.”  So THEN I connected the two and was like…okay is my writing offbeat…or am *I* offbeat?  Am I f***ing OFFbeat?

Like I know I’m strange and I got some questionable OCD ticks going on but like…offbeat?  Like awkward?


Cuz lemme tell ya.  I’m not trying to be offbeat.  To me, offbeat is a bit overdone at this point.  It’s been played up so much…Kimmy Schmitt chick, Aubrey Plaza, Zooey Deschanel in general like…it’s a brand.

WHICH REMINDED ME OF SOMETHING ELSE someone said to me once about something I posted. 

“Very on-brand.”

On brand!?!?  

I, Jesse No-One-At-All, have a BRAND!? What’s my brand?!? I want to be ON BRAND in 2020!  Brand brand brand brand brand!!!!!

And then I thought…maybe mundanity IS my brand.  

I HAVE to write about my under boob muscle.  And my teeth brushing habits.  And how I cried today on the 1 train because it’s the first day of my period and I have no idea what I’m doing ever.  

And guys, I got so excited thinking about all the mundane blog posts I could write like…my god, check out this list of “on-brand” ideas:

  • I feel genuine guilt at commanding Alexa to do something—I know she’s not real but I’m always thinking that the universe and maybe like…the spirit world (?) are watching me be on this powertrip and my grandma is thinking “please and thank you’s, Jesse, don’t be an a**hole”  
  • I carry a clear purse now because I want to be able to see inside my bag at all times so I can make sure bed bugs don’t sneak in my purse from someone on the train or that lady from Chipotle that wears a neck pillow all the time.  I think it’s genius…some seem to think it’s a little crazy—but you say tomato, I say YOU’RE JEALOUS.
  • Are we still picking up heads up pennies?????  What’s the rule now?  If it’s tails up do you fix it so someone else can find it heads up and so then you both get good luck because of the good karma you did?  I’ve been trying that lately as long as the penny doesn’t look too germy.
  • I think it’s important that everyone watch Criminal Minds so they can make a plan for how they’d avoid all of the horrifying things that could potentially happen to them.  Like I’ve got a fool-proof way to avoid getting kidnapped by the guy who paralyzes you and then force feeds you someone else’s fingers, and maybe, just maybe it’s time for me to share that with the world…
  • My f***ing slippers are never right next to me when I need to slip them on and so WHAT EVEN GOOD ARE THEY? If my bare feet have to touch the floor while I LOOK for my slippers then why do I even have them at all YOU’RE USELESS, SLIPPERS JUST GET OUTTA TOWN!

I think maybe this could go somewhere.  Maybe I write these posts and maybe they’re not all genius—but they’re me.  They’re on brand.  

And then maybe I’ll have a day or two where I’m ready to talk about my feelings and it’s cheaper to just write about them than go back to therapy.  

  • Example feeling/thought:  If you never do anything incredible or extraordinary or even mildly impressive in your life but you always make enough to pay the bills, travel a little, and spend time with family/friends…will you look back in the end and still regret not having done anything extraordinary?  I mean, I know we’re all supposed to think NO, OUR HAPPINESS IS ALL THAT MATTERS.  And LOVE YOURSELF no matter what and yeah yeah yeah…but is that truly all? Will it be enough…? I don’t know!!!

This is gonna be a good year for blogging, I can feel it. It’s just the beginning.  You’re gonna love it, wanna know why?

Because you’re just as f***ing mundane as I am.  

And you know what ‘mundane’ truly is?  

Real.  NOT offbeat.  Just real.

Stay tuned…

Just kidding I can’t in good conscience end a blog post with ‘stay tuned’.  Instead here’s the lyric to the song I’m currently listening to:

“You think you got it.  Oh…you think you got it.  But got it just don’t get it when there’s nothing at all…” 

WOW couldn’t have said it better myself 👏🏻 👏🏻 👏🏻 

The Art of Crying in Public

If you’ve never cried in public then congratu-f**king-lations on STIFLING YOUR EMOTIONS and manifesting them internally until they turn into cancer.

Actually I’ve been crying in public since kindergarten when I was telling everyone about my new Lisa Frank stencils and Jaron told me to “SHUT UP, JESSE ROSE*” …and look how that turned out.

(*Yes, I was called Jesse Rose until 1st grade)

Although that cancer could’ve manifested from many things such as incessant Diet Coke drinking or the fact that in junior high I used to be home alone after school and would mix peanut butter in a bowl with chocolate chips and cool whip and eat it with my fingers while simultaneously performing the entire first 40 minutes of Annie (including the Overture) in my kitchen, complete with hard knock life sweeping and bucket slamming. None of that can be healthy.

Sorry I got lost.


A couple days ago I was pondering on the train. You may recall from the last installment of this rousing blog that I like to ponder things while being transported from one place to another. Cars are for pondering cliches.

Trains are for troubles. Alliteration is very important to me.

So there I was pondering my troubles, really really allowing myself to wallow for a bit. This is called “rumination” which I learned from accidentally listening to the same chapter of ‘The Power of Now’ over and over again on the train before I finally thought “hmm this sounds familiar” and realized it’s because the tracks are on “repeat” and maybe I should dedicate train-time solely to troubles-pondering.

I’m so sorry, lost again.

So anyway. I was pondering my troubles, which are very VERY many being a white girl from a middle-class background with a degree, a stable job, and a loving family. But we all have shitty weeks and last week was just rough for me on many fronts, and I really just wanted to RUMINATE.

And so I’m ruminating and ruminating and ruminating and then “When the Party’s Over” came on shuffle by Billie Eilish, and if you’ve never heard that song before, it’s a really really sad song that makes you feel like there’s no hope and you should just curl up in the fetal position and RUE THE DAY your sister ever taught you that Billie Eilish was not the same thing as Billy Eichner.

And of course…I was doing just the right amount of pondering that the combination of my troubles AND this really really sad song was dangerously close to putting me over the edge…

When it comes to public tears, there’s always a moment RIGHT before the point of no return where you are faced with a choice: you could dial it back and NOT cry in public…or you could just release the beast and let it happen. And in that crucial moment, I contemplated simply changing the song…seems pretty simple! I got plenty of good jams to listen to…but I didn’t.

I decided that this day was as good a day as any for a good ole public cry. Call me dramatic—but every once in a while, I want to remind EVERYONE around me that not only am I a human being with emotions, but I ALSO don’t give a f**k about your comfort. There is a brevity in not caring if you see me cry. It can be very empowering.

It CAN be. But it has to be done very carefully.

First of all, it can never get out of control. It needs to be graceful. It requires a lot of long, carefully planned blinks.

You close your eyes lightly at first. Then you slowly squeeze your eyelids tighter and tighter. It’s almost like you squeeze the tears out with your eyes closed, and then lightly open them and allow the water to trickle down your face. It looks, from the outside…like you are fighting back the tears…when in reality, you are just summoning them to do your bidding.

Then, you stare straight ahead for fifteen Mississippis.

FIFTEEN. FULL. MISSISSIPPIS. Even if what is straight ahead of you is the open fly of a Canadian tourist in cargo shorts. Just keep staring ahead…because if you decide to look down, you might find that he is also wearing MAN FLOPS…and if you look UP???

Well looking up would cause public-crying eye-contact.

And that is a no no.

That I had to learn the hard way. Once when I was having a “got-all-the-way-home-and-realized-I-left-my-housekeys-at-Wendys-while-getting-a-frosty-and-also-I’m-on-my-period-and-now-I’m-on-my-way-back-to-Wendy’s” cry, I accidentally made eye contact with a guy.


He was hot.

And it was embarrassing not just because he was attractive and I’d been wearing a lot of mascara that day…but also because he FELT COMPELLED TO SAY SOMETHING.

“err….it’s gonna be okay,” he muttered, uncomfortably, as he exited the train.

“I LOVE YOU…” I called back. (Jk)


So anyway, you repeat a couple of the long, graceful blinks and tear trickling, stare ahead a little bit…and then when you’ve decided you’ve drawn enough attention but not too much…you take a deep breath and think about how you are going to make yourself feel better.

During the Eilish incident, I thought about how as soon as I got off the train I’d be at Maison Harlem and I could order roasted chicken and mashed potatoes and watch ‘Dance Moms’ on my iPhone LIKE EVERYONE DOES at a bar!

The thought made me so happy that even the creepy cat-caller outside the train station who said “aww nooo smile?” couldn’t bring me down.

Guess what? I DID smile at him. But not because he told me to…because I was thinking “ROASTED HALF-CHICKEN MOTHERF**KER.”

And as I devoured that chicken and mashed potatoes, I made a plan to make myself feel even BETTER with a BACKSTREET BOYS JOG later in the evening!

(A Backstreet Boys jog is when you jog to “Shape of My Heart” on repeat and sometimes a bunch of guys playing basketball nearby hear you singing along louder than you realized because of your earbuds, and they try to join in by singing the chorus of “I Want it That Way”…and you think “okay guys, not the right song, but I’m proud of your inner Backstreet Boy!”)

>>BTW saw the Backstreet Boys at Barclays Center last month, and they are still amazing, and AJ can still show me the shape of his heart any way any DAY!<<


You know my actor friend once told me she hates crying in public because it’s so basic? And let me tell you—NYC actors cry in public A LOT. Because we JUST SO HAPPENED to find out AT STARBUCKS that we woke up at 4am and waited six hours for nothing because they’ve decided not to see anyone under 5’3 and we’re 5’2 and now it’s too late to go home. ORRR ORRR we don’t know how to answer the “are you a dancer?” question because at a dancer call we look like a non-dancer, but at a non-dancer call we look like a dancer so OMG WHAT THE F**K DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME? SWEET JESUS!


So anyway, my actor friend told me that she hates crying in public because it’s “so basic.”




And my question is…basically what?

What is basic? What is a “basic bitch”? I’m basic because I was happy that Starbucks did pumpkin spice lattes early? I’m basic because I listen to trashy pop music and like scented candles? I’m basic because I like watching ‘Bachelor in Paradise’, and still support Blake Horstmann and his search for love even though he got a bad rep for trying to live his best life as a single man at a country music festival?

I’m basic because I WOULD actually go on ‘The Bachelor’ if I knew beforehand who the Bachelor was? I’m basic because I’m afraid I’d get sent home on the first night because “that Jesse girl was cute but I feel like she was more interested in eating the snacks?”

I’m basic because in this theoretical world where I went on “The Bachelor”, ABC put “Girl Who Ate All the Snacks” under my name at the reunion show?

I’m basic because I’m drinking happy hour champagne while I write this?

I’m basic because I have the STRENGTH to cry in public?

Guess what? I’m gonna tell you a secret. Society loooooooooves to rag on the “basic bitches.”

But “basic”….is just a cover for “REAL AF.”

The BASIC girls are the realest.

The BASIC girls are the hustlers.

The BASIC girls are the ones who will look back on the most FULL lives.

The BASIC girls just keep writing and writing and writing, hoping at the end of it you come away with a very, very REAL message:


I will continue to cry in public as I see fit. I will continue to write really weird shit that you NEVER SHARE ON FACEBOOK TO HELP A GIRL OUT…but that YOU will continue to read!

So to all my basic girls…just remember the wise words of the bestest most basic-est Louisiana woman we all know and love:

Love me

Hate me

Say what you want about me

But all of the boys

AND all of the girls…

Are begging to If U Seek Amy.”