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Hate when people say "I'm not afraid of anything" cuz, like, have you seen things? They're terrifying. � MehGyver (@AndrewNadeau0) August 23, 2017 Several months ago, one of my old high school teachers emailed me to ask if I�d consider sharing my story with her moms' church group. (And by old I mean �former.� That woman hasn�t aged a minute. She�s lovely.) Her group had been focusing on the topic of �fearlessness in the face of adversity,� and she thought I might have, I don�t know, some insight on the subject. Which bwahahahaha omgggg nooooo. I am the opposite of fearless. I�m scared of at least 23 bajillion things. Also, I don�t do public-speaking. Not voluntarily. When I feel compelled to share something, I perch myself behind the comfortable security of a computer screen. I could hear the fraud police sounding their sirens. In a momentary lapse of judgement I wrote back, "Why yes, of course. I�d be happy to speak to your group." It took maybe four se...

�Without the dark there isn�t light. Without the pain there is no relief. And I remind myself that I�m lucky to be able to feel such great sorrow, and also such great happiness. I can grab on to each moment of joy and live in those moments because I have seen the bright contrast from dark to light and back again. I am privileged to be able to recognize that the sound of laughter is a blessing and a song, and to realize that the bright hours spent with my family and friends are extraordinary treasures to be saved, because those same moments are a medicine, a balm. Those moments are a promise that life is worth fighting for, and that promise is what pulls me through when depression distorts reality and tries to convince me otherwise.�    - Jenny Lawson : author, blogger, mental illness sufferer, lovable oddball *** A year ago today I got probably the least fun phone call ever from my Ob/Gyn . I knew what was coming, and I thought I was prepared to hear it. But like who�s ok with...

Are you on  twitter ? I've only been hanging out there since the summer. For months, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. I still feel like the gangly tween at the party, but I don't care because twitter is where all the hilarious, raucous kids hang out and it makes me feel like maybe I could sit at their lunch table and, I don't know, trade friendship bracelets or something. Basically, I swing by twitter when I need a laugh. Take these with a huge grain of salt. 15 Tweets That Will Make You Laugh If Your Life Is A Trainwreck: 1. Don't forget to pretend you're mentally stable today. � Jedi Cheesy Gifts (@JediGigi) January 7, 2014 2. *reluctantly signs reality check* *adds "lame" to memo line* � Alien Skier (@ClichedOut) September 27, 2017 3. i just heard a guy at the coffee shop say he was doing ok and thought whatever, quit gloating � silent schmox, holy schmox (@IvoryGazelle) October 5, 2017 4. Sometimes I find a random screw lying around my hous...

Turns out radiation leaves me wrecked. I am running on low batteries, my friends. Anything not required for basic survival is being given a bloodshot glance of dismissal from me. Including writing. And probably mailing out Christmas cards. Which, normally, are two activities that give me quite a lot of pleasure. Now, they just look like work. I am trying to give myself the grace to NOT do things. And to not feel badly about not doing things.  Can We Stop Glorifying Busy, Already?! Photo by  Andreas Klassen  on  Unsplash Ever feel like being busy has become the modern equivalent of �living life to the fullest?� We�re obsessed with being busy. It�s in vogue. It�s also a drag. Look at the way we talk - autopilot kicks in when people ask about our weekend -- �It was good, just busy.� We don�t even notice ourselves saying it because it�s become such an ingrained dimension of how we interpret our worth. If we say we�re busy, we must be productive. If we�re productive, we...

This space could use a little jolt of happy, wouldn�t you agree? I had my first post-op appointment with my surgical oncologist yesterday. Remind me to stop scheduling things in the afternoon. Waiting around all day turns me into a strung out lunatic. By the time we were ready to leave, my stress level had surpassed its breaking point. Paul drove. I cried. Perched on the examining room chair, I fidget with the ties of my pink cover-up. My doctor pokes his head in the door, smiling. Smiling is a good sign. I like smiling. We talk about how I�m feeling. He takes a look at my incision. He decides it�s time to remove the sutures. �I�ll be right back. I�m just going to run and grab a suture removal kit, ok?� Ok. But um, like -- do I still have cancer? I love my doctor. He�s the best. He�s brilliant. And sometimes brilliant people are�slightly scatterbrained? Or eccentric. So I forgive him for not launching into my pathology results the moment he walked in the door.  As he�s pulling...

In case you were wondering, here are ten ordinary tasks that are impossibly hard to do after a mastectomy: getting out of bed  getting into bed getting comfortable enough to sleep in said bed  opening the refrigerator  opening pill bottles  opening anything  staying awake for more than a few hours at a time  putting on t-shirts  sitting on the same couch as a squirmy 3-year-old  updating your blog, apparently Things went fine on Monday. As fine as these things can go. No complications, unless you count a bout of nausea so severe it made me reach for the call light. I LOATHE using the call light, so yes, it was that bad.  No skin grafts were necessary for the wound closure. Thrilling news! We are so, so pleased about that. By Tuesday afternoon, I was home. I�ve been sleeping ever since. I wouldn�t be surprised if Ingrid equates adulthood with perpetual naps and constant doctors' appointments. Because that is what the adults in her life do: sle...

It's been a not good week. I've stalled on this post for a couple of days now. I didn't want to write it. I had to let the thoughts swirl around my head for a bit like glitter suspended in a snow globe before they settled into a more decipherable pattern. Also, I needed to be able to type without tears blurring my vision (oy vey). I can do that now, so no more dodging the subject. I got some bad news from my surgical oncologist on Tuesday. After quickly checking on my incision sites he sat with his head down and said, "We need to talk." (up there with "I want a divorce" and "we're out of cheese" as one of the most stressful 4-word sentences in the English language.) WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE NEED TO TALK?! What is there to talk about aside from how I'm winning at this whole mastectomy business and look I can almost raise my arms above my head and could you excuse me for a minute because I'm going to go throw up now, thanks. "I'v...

4 days until surgery. The madness Richter scale is rising. I'd say we're at a 5. No, 6.  6 and mounting steadily. I recall informing people during the early stages of my treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flip here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here. If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy. Of course, timing is everything. My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like... a rabid runaway train heading full-speed towards a...