Tell these stories when you shouldn’t and the bees will come and sting your lips, your tongue will swell and fill your mouth, snakes will crawl into your bed and choke you when you sleep . . . .
I’m known for my imagination—a mixture of truth and fantasy. When I’m not making up stories, I’m telling the truth and writing nonfiction, but this blog is limited to tragic events and their outcomes. Traumatic events move me to the point of scurrying around to find a pen and paper or running over to the computer in order to save the thought or begin the essence of the essay. This is nothing new for me. Even as a child, I’d find myself writing stories modeled after a particular scary or sad occasion, like the time a mouse found his way inside the wall next to my bed and kept me awake until Father finally set a trap and caught it in our basement. Or the murder of the Grime sisters which took place in the woods near the home where I grew up; or when a neighbor’s mother died while I was away at overnight camp. These are some of the events that spurred my writing during childhood. During high school, narrative prose turned into poetic notes passes down long rows of students to the intended classmate. They were funny with a touch of dark humor—a trait my father passed down to me at an early age. As I matured, the experienced traumatic events became larger with less space in-between; A mother who broke her neck in three places and died on the scene due to a negligent driver, a son who was killed on his motorcycle after he performed stunts for free, a husband who died of esophageal cancer after fighting it for two years, and a father who betrayed his daughter at an early age and lived to be 98-years old. These are some of the experiences I’ve examined in depth with my writings during the last fifteen years.
My latest essays for this blog began after I received a diagnosis of breast cancer on October 30, 2013 at 10:46 AM.
cancerBrat is the result of that experience—invAsive ductal cArcinOma \ IDC
By changing the upper-lower case letters in IDC, it makes the diagnosis seem less serious, more playful. It allows me to look at this disease a different way and to present that spin to you.
But I don’t think I answered the question yet of who am I and I’m not sure I know the answer except to say I’m still learning.
Most of my clothes are black; I’ve never been to Paris; Writing isn’t work to me; I hate taking prescription meds; I love my dog Gracie; Doctor appointments are avoided; I’m a gourmet cook; I like my jewelry simple but elegant; I procrastinate at times; I’m a terrible patient; I fight the aging process; I play basketball and dance ballet; I’ve loved two men in my life; I hate Roquefort dressing; I think about sex often; I workout four times a week; My breasts are an integral part of who I am; I don’t follow the typical cancer maze; I’m a sleuth in many ways; I love orgasms.