I’ve been fighting for a long time. I started training to fight, and then some serious opponents came up

I stayed in the training and got my black belt

I didn’t give up on my serious cancer opponents and they are vanquished and quiet

I think about the boys

Men

Boys

Who stormed normandy beach.THey didn’t get to stop. They training. I don’t know if they volunteered, but the events landed in their lap and they had to walk through them

Up that beach

They didn’t invite the war in

I didn’t ask for cancer

but the fight was upon us

When they went home to their old rooms and their old clothes

Their shirts didn’t fit the same, I’m sure

Mine didn’t either

I don’t know how to fit into the life I previously occuppied. A lot has burned down and i carry scars

The beach

the poisons

I did not dare to stop and feel the seriousness of what I was facing

Eyes on the goal

I did it. I made it.

What do I do now? can I look around now or have I forgotten how?
I have to gently probe the spots to see if I can feel.

I am thinking of myself and how i wish I were, how I wish I coul think of myself

“It’s good to be able to name the pooch.”

I’d just shared a situation with my friend. Rambling on, trying to explain how I’d been caught—alone and afraid—in a circumstance and I could find a way out.

She is brilliant. It was a military saying: to screw the pooch. It’s a way to describe things gone wrong—disgraceful and mortifying—maybe even with good intentions but seriously wrong.

I am wrestling with a new circumstance—the hits keep on coming—and I’m working through the layers.

SOMETHING is wrong. I am getting the clues and forming suspicions but it’s foggy and not in my control.

I can feel the wrongness, and I’m not sure if I can stop it. Am I screwing up? Or if I flip it over, am I witnessing something being screwed?

Feeling gross and uncomfortable, I am not sure.

I find comfort in being the one to blame. Yes, the mortification would land on me. But if I’m the problem, I can start on the solution right now. I am in control and my actions could fix the problem., I can shift and get things moving the way I want.

I wrote about the trouble I was having with math last week. Last week’s pooch was math. I wrestled that one into control and another pooch showed up.

I am working through the layers of figuring things out. I know it’s not right and I’m still not sure how to get through to the core of the issue. I am trying, and I am not sure the problem is me. I’ve been playing with that idea and it doesn’t seem to fit.

Once I decide the trouble isn’t me, I could release the idea that I have to grapple it into submission. If the problem isn’t for me to fight, it could be something that will change without as much effort. It could change like the weather, The wind could die down and the sun come shining through.

That happens. And if I were still stuck trying to understand the nature of the pooch I might miss that the struggle—the pooch—had moved on. What exactly would be screwed then?

Me, probably.

Things do change. The sooner I figure out what call that pooch and how to stop the screwing the better for me.

I started this test for the third time. By the second question the panic was bigger than me. This new industry I am working in is different and I am trying to get this certification so I can follow along with the action.

I’m used to picking up certifications–it’s fun learning new things. When the manager suggested it, of course I said I would give it a try. Water math, they called it.

The first part seemed easy.

I was wrong. This math is impossible.

I’d invested in the online class, and the team I’d joined told me that it wouldn’t be a big deal.

Now the unit conversions between gallons pounds, acres, liters and milligrams were a cliff I couldn’t scale.

I tried to go back to the beginning and try again. Write it down, do it slow.

But the storm of thoughts made the facts slippery. Maybe I wasn’t capable of this kind of learning anymore. It would become clear to everyone else that I was in the wrong place, not the right person and would be asked to leave. My presence would be an insult to the other people, best swept away and not spoken of again—at least not publicly.

With those terrifying monstrous ideas whirling through my head, it was impossible to convert pounds of chlorine to the correct dose into quantities of million gallons per day.

I knew better than to start the test for the third time. It was a desperate move, apparent the moment I started again. As if magic would suddenly happen, and I would know the answers without making the effort.

I thought I knew better. My panic was picking up new evidence for how impossible this was, and how everything else in my life was impossible and I was doomed to failure at everything I attempted.

Carrying the momentum I went to my martial arts class, and was able to teach my class a new move. It wasn’t new to me at this time, but it had been a while since I’d done it. It came back to me. I remembered how impossible it was the first few months when I’d tried to learn it.

And this night, I had forgotten that I’d learned it. Until I did it again. Almost as easy as walking.

I had done the impossible once. I had another story to calm the panic. The next morning I picked up the homework again. I re-read, wrote it all out again, and spent another set of hours. The panic came with, but I was able to quiet it enough to keep going.

I did not need magic after all. I found a way to keep trying and that let me stop the free fall. It’s going to take longer than I first thought, but it lost the impossible part.

I’ve talked about books here an embarrassing amount. I love reading, and I’m always looking for another book to savor. I seek out recommendations for the best book possible.

The literary canon has many enduring beautiful books to choose from. Experts have anointed certain books as worthy of attention.

I could name the books I’ve read and recommend. But for a change, I am going to talk about one I can’t stand.

I’ve read The Great Gatsby at least three times. It’s a book professors love to lecture on.

I tried. I don’t like any of the characters and I don’t understand people who do. I tried it again to see if I was missing something.

No. I still hate it. Who are these wretched people and why should I care? The parties in the book sounded glamorous, but that was it.

What lifted this to literature? What did thes professors see that I didn’t?

My husband found an article that gave me a new perspective. Not on the prose, but on the author and how he got attention.

Fitzgerald’s work were not that popular during his lifetime. His high life booze-soaked novels lost appeal during the 1930s prohibition and depression economics. But then an aspiring professor at Princeton named Mizener had gotten hold of Fitzgerald’s papers after he died.

And he produced paper after paper about this author, eventually getting his own faculty position. The article goes on to explain how a number of Princeton people influenced Great Gatsby’s rise to being a classic.

Gatsby himself is doomed to never be good enough to get what he wants. And the darkest side of the Ivy league Princeton snobbery is so vindicated by his exclusion.

It confused me to hear one of my professors call it the great American story. I’ve lived in America my whole life, and I don’t know anybody like those people and I wouldn’t want to.

I’m not saying these kinds of characters don’t’ exist, but they are not common. And I don’t have to like it. Nope, that’s not the America I know and I’m willing to see these lit teachers as unreliable narrators.

This Substack is the newest version of the Wonderblog, which I started mere months before I graduated with a BA in English. I graduated later than I thought I was should have. And as soon as I graduated, I started thinking I didn’t need to have graduated at all.

The reason I wanted a BA was to start writing.

I started this blog before I graduated–proof that I never needed to wait for the diploma.

I have kept up this blog—founded in 2002 and blogging no less than once a week. I’m beginning to see that consistency like that is one of my superpowers.

But this week, I’m having trouble.

I’m past the hurricane of cancer treatments, and sick to death of talking about it. I’ve been stuck under that storm so long I’m not sure who is left as I crawl out. What remains?

I kept hold this blog

Because as long as I’m writing

I’m a writer.

I didn’t need the university to give me permission, and I regret I waited so long to give myself permission to write my first book.

Then again, I did –and still do—the work to keep creating. Stacking words into sentences and seeing if they stand up. 

Looking back at the origin story, I’m reminding myself of who I am.   It’s  what I need right now.

The world has changed since this blog began. I asked GrokAI for a writing prompt, which was a self-aware attempt to engage with AI as a new technology.

The answer was not helpful. I tried to reverse engineer his style “Grok, why did you use an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence?”

“Exclamation marks add excitement and energy to writing!”

They are fake emotion, Grok. Using metaphors and examples for what emotions a writer is trying to evoke is what makes prose beautiful.

He defended his choices, and continued to use exclamation marks after I explained that they were the sign of an inexperienced writer.

Me and the AI went back and forth as I responded to prompts about how writing should be done.

I’m not gaining anything by teaching an artificial intelligence how to write about feelings it doesn’t have.

Then again, I was able to quickly express the mechanics of writing, proving that I do know this craft.

As I’m trying to find a way pick it up again, it’s nice to realize I’m not starting from zero. I’m still in here and I know a few things.

THE END

“…and they lived happily ever after.
The end”

This is the classic wrap up and the end of a child’s story. So satisfying, so calming. It lets everybody know that the world and everyone in it is safe.

Very soon we grow up and know that ending is way more complicated. The ever after has a lot of wrinkles and surprises.

I’m at THE END of my cancer journey. I beat breast cancer, then thyroid cancer
TWICE

Am I at the end? I don’t know. A lot of people stay attached to the worry of it, carrying around a burden about whether it makes a comeback.

I’m reminded of Mr. Incredible saying “Sometimes I just want [the world] to stay saved! You know, just for a little bit?”

I made the intentional choice NOT to hoist that worry burden. However, a negative leaves a vacuum. If I don’t worry, what will I do instead?

I first wanted to hide during the time of weakness, and then I went very public. I was scary to be public and show my changing visage while I went through it.

People ask “How are you doing?”

I can say with justification, “I’m done now.”

And all those within hearing can feel the calming warmth of that “happily ever after” we’ve learned to expect. Still as grownups we see the shadows at the end of the firelight.

I’m a writer and an artist. How do I creatively express this story I’m in? It’s mine to tell. Real life gave the gift of an ending. A conclusion, for whatever that means in the long years of my life. If Joseph Campbell’s hero has a thousand faces, this hero has faced a thousand epic adventures.

I get to craft how to tell it. I think for the moment, I’ll side with Mr. Incredible and let my world stay saved for a little. I look forward to another day when I get to tell more of this story

I finally called my friend—I hadn’t called her at all this year. It was high time to catch up. I was telling her about the work I’m doing at the new job.

There is this document for the inspectors. Every 5 years, the inspector come and inspect. They last inspected 5 years ago. After the last inspection, the inspectors gave us a list of things that should be improved and corrected.

I was not there 5 years ago. Since I am here now, I can read the report and help the team verify whether any of the items still need to be done.

It’s a very common task for a project manager.

There are records that some of it got done quickly after the inspection, and that some things they asked for more time.

I took on the task to review and confirm which was what and help the team to do as much of the work left as they could.

As I explained to one of the engineers,

There is the doing of the thing

Then there is the documentation of the doing of the thing.

They are separate and different.

We’d been concentrating on the doing of the thing. Until now, when the time has come to catch up with the documentation of the doing.

The engineer said, “the doing of the thing—that’s the most important part!”

It might be. If the point is to keep the system working, it certainly is important. I smiled, “There is another possibility. A person could be tempted to skip the doing the thing, and create a documentation of the doing of the thing that doesn’t include any doing. A person could document that they have a plan to do the thing which skips over any doing.

It can feel so much like doing a thing: writing out a plan to do that thing. Or even a plan to create a plan to do the thing.

It’s hard to do things. And that’s the part I like.

I am finishing a physical book this week, The Witch’s Heart by Genevieve Gornichec. I’m crawling through the last bit of treatments, and I’m trying to read physical books like a person with stamina and strength.
I don’t have much strength, but I will have the stamina to get through these treatments.
The witch heroine of the book is the mythological norse witch that foresaw ragnarok, drawing the painful attention of Odin.
Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods and the end of the nine worlds—she saw it and Odin desperately wanted what she knew.
Odin wanted to control it. And the witch knew fates were not to be bargained with. What would they have done differently.
I am in the twilight of the last cancer treatment, the 2nd dose of treatment for my thyroid cancer. Because I KNOW I am near done I have the room to contemplate. In the storm of the next hard thing and the next I allowed myself no room for what-if or if-only
My ragnarok. That diagnosis and all that came after was fated, right?Odin tortured that witch future seer to find out and control it. The witch also tried to wiggle through the uncertainties
The gaps in fate
To save what she loved most

I look around, thinking what other paths were not taken. What if I had made the inevitable choice, but earlier? Would I have avoided pain?

With the extreme treatments and surgeries ending on March 28, I feel like I am walking out of a crowded fate and into freedom

Odin, king of the gods of Asgard, was jealous to get as much of that freedom as he could. HE lost an eye for it.

Like a memory of a distant sound, I can hear a time when I called that kind of freedom “Tuesday”

It was that ordinary.

What will I do now, without being squeezed between medical tortures? How long will I remember to cherish how good ordinary feels?

I don’t want to squander it.

I’ve spent most of my career in IT, as corporate as it gets. Today, I am in a job for a city government which is very different.

I’m living the life of to a city mouse.

As the men come in and out of our ground floor work area in their high visibility vests, doors can be left open for convenience. Real work has to get done, and our customers—the Residents—call to tell us about water leaks and felled tree branches.

We are not virtual. We are close to the earth.

This week, I was wrapping up my work in preparation to leave for the day when by cube neighbor asked “Did you see the black widow?”

I slowly turned to him—confused and with growing horror.

He nods at me, “Yes, it’s spider season and there are probably a lot of them around.”

Oh, that’s reassuring. “I thought you meant one in this building.”

He smiled, with male delight at my horror. “I did. I’ve been watching it to see where it will go.”

“Why would you watch it? It should be killed! What are you waiting for?!”

“I agree, I definitely want it killed.”

I’m out of my seat now. “Do you know where it is?”

He’s gotten out of his chair too, now that I’m activated. “It’s right there,” he says, pointing to the corner of the room.

“IT’s HERE!? Are you sure it’s a black widow? Show me.”

He cannot hide his glee at my alarm, and he takes me the 20 steps to the exterior door where a fat-bottomed horror hangs between some unused cube shelves in a little alcove.

“See? He’s very happy there, no reason to move. But if he’s gotta be killed, I want to make sure he’s dead.”

Spider was cleverly not in a squishable position.

“She. All black widows are female.”

“Oh, right.”

“She looks like she’s about pop into hundreds of baby poison spiders.”

He chuckles. “I guess I should put in a request in a work request to have the exterminator handle it.”

I’m looking around for some spider killing spray, but nothing is nearby.

“Or I could ask Eduardo..”

I grabbed my stuff and got out of there. I forgot about the spider until halfway through the next day.

I knew what he meant about Eduardo. This guy liked insects, and had a pet scorpion in a cage about the size of a shoebox. Everyone knew this about Eduardo because the scorpion cage came to work almost every day, spending time in different offices. He had trick of glowing in the dark, so people would sometimes turn off the light and admire the him by flashing a special flashlight on him that made him glow even brighter.

It wasn’t until I saw Eduardo in the coffee area that I remembered the Widow.

“Good morning!” I said with a big smile. “How’s you pet?”

He gave me a dark look, “Which one?”

Oops. Had I stepped in something? “Your scorpion..”

“Oh, the scorpion. He’s fine.”

“Is there more to the story?”

“My centipede hasn’t been doing so well.”

Curiouser and Curiouser. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s not with us anymore.”

“oh no. Did anybody talk to you about the Spider?”

Eduardo bobbed his head up. “Oh yeah. I said I didn’t want to get involved with that mess”

We both separated with our coffee and I wondered about Eduardo’s definition of a mess when it came to insects. It was clear why my co-worker thought of him as a place to home the spider.

I went over to the spider’s lair and found an empty web.

This increases my concern.

Now I am worried about multiple baby spiders crawling out of unexpected crevices.

I suspect this won’t be the last unexpected surprise in my life as a city mouse.