Dear Reader, how ever can you keep up? My last published post was only seven years ago!
It's 2 days before the 20th anniversary of 9/11, and I know I'm going to share a link to my blow-by-blow recounting of my experience of that day. Which might lead people here...to this post too. If I publish it. I'm embarrassed by the "personal essay" style. But, I am trying to figure out how to write, so...
I just re-read all my old (mostly unpublished) posts. Surprisingly, they all seem to have a similar tone. Maybe I already know how I'd write, if I wrote. I've read HUNDREDS of books since the last time I wrote anything. I've probably learned something. My writing would sound different from all of them. I truly don't know if I'd like what I wrote, but it's kind of comforting to think it wouldn't sound like any random monkey-with-a-typewriter's 187,00th draft... It'd just sound like this monkey. With spellcheck.
Most cringey is the entry from 7 years ago, which I was too embarrassed to publish for years, about how it felt not "making it" as an actor. Ohmygod the Shame Rake that hits me in the face when I imagine people reading it. But I can't pretend that wasn't how I felt then. These days, I have been a full-time freelance audiobook narrator for nearly three years and I am so grateful I can't even tell you. I got out. I got myself out. Everything is better. I no longer cry in the shower before work!
I actually cry much less in general... but I suspect that's aging. The callus I was so afraid would toughen my heart has had some really loving, sweet, nurturing effects on my heart as well. I'm okay. I didn't fall into a cesspit of bitterness as I'd feared. I missed the moon, and...I dunno...still feel joy. I certainly feel more gratitude.
I wish I were writing this a few days later, when I'd had a chance to tell this to my parents before they stumble upon it, but... I have to get a biopsy on my left breast next week. All the Statistics tell me chances are high that the mass - which "looks kind of like a flower" - will be benign. But still. This shit is why people don't go to the doctor. My poor doctor's attempt to seem inquisitive, not worried, as she pulled me into the private room where I could tie up my medical robe... I felt for her, while also feeling like I was turning into ice, and hoping I could just melt down the drain or something.
Here's one thing fear does - I went on the longest run in YEARS! I couldn't get tired! (This was when I was about to tell Steven about the biopsy.)
I also pulled out my Don't Panic Abacus, and have been clicking away on it like a true New Englander. If that's what I am.
(Will definitely not post this right away, but am writing it on 9/9/2021. The biopsy's on the 13th, which is past the 20th anniversary of 9/11...so, one scary thing at a time thankyouverymuch.)
In my version of this common experience, I have been able to mostly remain calm, not drink too much, and mostly sleep through the night since I made the biopsy appointment.
I may call in reinforcements for day 3 or 4 after the procedure, when the results are due. Watch this space, friends.
The biggest surprise at this point has been (deep breath) how clearly I see my value. I challenge anyone to need a booby biopsy and not have some pretty dire "what ifs" waft through your mind, even if only on a quick breeze. I think it'd be a real shame if those what ifs came to pass. I think I'm worth having around. I think this is the most clearly I've seen my intrinsic value...like, maybe, ever.
I'm pretty sure something like this buys you a few adolescent turns of phrase.
There was a moment, in the weeks after 9/11, while the dust and smoke from the Twin Towers was still thick in the air, in my nose, that I had the thought "One day, this will have happened 20 years ago." That day is...Saturday. I'm still a lucky sonuvabitch. Everything except the skin on my neck (and let's face it, my baby-jowls) is better. Everything.
Steven comes home from a great gig soon enough to hold onto me as I pull myself together.
And I can handle it. Whatever it is.
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