Subscribe now

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

However, a microphone’s coming in the mail this weekend! Sound should get better. Now I just need to learn how to edit dead air 🤞

Thanks for listening! -Nicole

Share

There are so many entry points that illustrate what Dolly means to to me. I could talk about how growing up, 9 to 5 was one of the few movies my brother and I could agree on. How we had horrible TV reception in the 80’s but we’d recorded the movie off the TV anyway—complete with snow and static and red lines—you could barely tell who was on the screen, at times. Was this the part where Dolly ties Dabney Coleman to his office chair? We weren’t sure, but we didn’t care. We watched it anyway.

Or I could talk about the time at the high school pep rally where the entire gym spontaneously broke into Islands In the Stream; I’d despised forced team spirit before that moment; or how, 35 years later, I asked-convinced-cajoled four of my friends into seeing a Bee Gees cover band with me for my birthday, and when the time came for that same song, the crowd exploded, which cemented this birthday as one of my happiest in recent memory.

I could talk about how I didn’t fully understand until I was an adult writer what an extraordinary act of vulnerability it was to pen I Will Always Love You, to expose yourself to the world and acknowledge that the person you love most is not the one who’s right for you—romantically, professionally or otherwise—and then have this heartbreaking confession become one of the most iconic songs of all time.

Or how Here You Come Again is built for karaoke. How Why’d You Come In Here Lookin’ Like That is an incredibly underrated shit-kickin’ breakup song—I mean, if you’re gonna walk in and flaunt it after we’re done, at least do me the courtesy of putting on sweatpants and looking like crap—and speaking of underrated, how Dumplin’, which features a Dolly superfan, is one of the best coming of age movies of the past 20 years. I think it’s still on Netflix, if you’d like to check it out.

What she taught me, though, through her music, her generosity, her personality, her ability to unite people of disparate opinions and belief systems, is simply this: You are strong, you are enough, and yes, life is really hard sometimes, but you know what? It’s gonna be okay. Be yourself—or put on a cheap wig if you want to—and love will come to you. Better yet if you can carry it all off with your sense of humor in tact.

Before Dolly, there weren’t women in the public eye saying these things to little girls. She’d look right into the camera as she did, too—she talked right to you, right to me, every time—and I believed her. We all did.

Am I strong because of Dolly? Probably not. Life’s circumstances and my upbringing likely helped with that. But do I understand how to love better, how to appreciate life and believe in myself more, because of her? Most definitely.

This is love.

And there’s more:

💫 Here’s my 10-part disability and breast cancer story and podcast, a serialized memoir:

✍️ Here’s my Thirteen Albums That Make Us Better Writers series:

Not in edginess, necessarily, though I adore quirk. I mean in time. Many of my friends are younger than me, and when it comes to pop and rock music, I get to it, just not historically on the same timeline as my peers. While my classmates brought Every Breath You Take and You Shook Me All Night Long to Share Your Music Day at school, I brought I was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool. You know, the song by Barbara Mandrell and George Jones? You probably don’t know it, actually. I’m pretty sure the only person who liked my song choice that day was my fourth grade teacher.

In recent years, I’ve flipped this script. I’m listening to modern stuff that most of my X-er friends are not—nor are many Millennials, frankly. My shift started as a way for me to disrupt my patterns while I was going though breast cancer, but it’s a permanent behavioral change for me, now. Contrary to the they just don’t make it like they used to stereotype, I think a lot of today’s music is fantastic.

I get it. There’s so much consumable content now that sometimes it feels easier to put up that Keep Off My Lawn sign and spin something nostalgic. I believe, though, that true lovers of the genre crave new music. They just don’t know where to find it, or to what it might be akin. That’s where I come in.

Subscribe now

How I made my list:

I’m defining ‘new’ as any full-length album released within the past 18 months. I’ve also picked records by artists that are not in the immediate sightline of most X’ers (or Boomers), so something like Taylor Swift’s The Life of a Showgirl is out—it’s too big—although this album wouldn’t have made my top five anyway. I’ve also discredited the exquisite SABLE/fABLE by Bon Iver; X-ers of a certain ilk already adore Justin Vernon with cult-like passion. What follows are five records that—at least when I informally poll my X-er friends—most of them say they’ve never heard. These also fit pretty securely in the pop or alt-pop/r&b pocket, because that’s been my pocket, lately. Here they are, arranged from most recent release date to oldest, with free Spotify listens and lyric links within the pull quotes and occasionally embedded in the text.

Lost Weekend

Phoebe Bridgers, 2026

This record is barely eleven days old, but it’s a shoe-in for my top five of the past year and a half. The album is intimate, personal, vulnerable and raw, but not raw in an inaccessible or “emotion expressed too soon” kind of way. This album is mature and thought out, both lush and stripped. Think Kate Bush meets Tori Amos with an occasional sprinkle of the Americana-tinted version of Sheryl Crow, and that’s Lost Weekend for me.

The themes throughout Lost Weekend are universal, too. When I first heard the title track, a meditation on failed but lingering love and how we learn the same lessons repeatedly even when we’re acutely aware of our actions, I stopped cold—had a visceral reaction in my body. Lost Weekend is the kind of album that’s meant to be taken as a whole and without distraction. So, pour yourself some tea or a glass of wine, turn off the lights, and treat yourself—the OG way.

you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love

Olivia Rodrigo, 2026

This album with the boldly long-ish title is quite simply, pop magic. If it doesn’t win Pop Album of the Year at the Grammys in February, I’ll eat the ridiculous but finally well-fitted cowgirl hat I just bought. I love every song on this record and they’re all different, so it’s difficult to pick one that’s exemplary or favorite. For now, I’ll choose stupid song, because I like the build and obsessiveness of it.

You seem pretty sad for a girl so in love has late-80’s pop and alt-rock DNA all over it. Olivia name-drops The Cure in the album’s opener, and both maggots for brains and the next track, u + me = <3 sound like they’re pulled directly from Robert Smith’s catalogue if you threw in The Bangles, say. The track after that has a B-52’s meets Go-Go’s vibe, and later on, the aforementioned Smith joins Rodrigo for a duet. The record is pure bliss, and I could write a whole post just about this. Maybe I will, soon enough.

A Matter of Time: The Final Hour

Laufey, 2025

At last count, as of April 2026—right before Laufey unveiled her first solo show at Coachella—this Icelandic ingenue had released six versions of this record, including the most recent all-instrumental album. I’m choosing The Final Hour because it’s the version I discovered first, though I very much doubt that Final is the last thing we will hear from Laufey, or even that it’s definitively the penultimate record in her A Matter of Time series.

At first listen, you’d think you were hearing remakes of croony vocal standards of the 30’s and 40’s, or maybe the kind of postmodern jazz that would’ve soundtracked episodes of Mad Men, twenty years ago. A few of the songs on A Matter of Time are this—timeless, romantic, earnest and lovely—but only a few. Behind the strings, the tinkly piano riffs and the soft drum brushes—or maybe directly in front of them—are feminist anthems and mild-to-overt signals that the person or people she’s singing about better well eff-off asap and let the 27-year-old chanteuse do her thing. Sometimes, this message is subtle and other times, it’s executed with Freddie Mercury-styled theatrics. I adore the vibe of this record, and so did Laufey’s audiences at Coachella this spring. She put on a show that would’ve made the Swan Dress Diva herself proud. Beaming, even. With pyrotechnics and everything.

SWAG II

Justin Bieber, 2025

And speaking of Coachella, man oh man.

When Mirrorball first sent me the link to SWAG accompanied by the note: I don’t hate this, I texted back that Biebs was going to headline Coachella. Headliner announcements still were months away, and Mirrorball replied that my prediction was bold but a stretch, or a flex, or something like this. We went back-and-forth for days about how we couldn’t believe we were actually listening to Justin Bieber—and loving it.

X-ers, I know. I don’t really have artists or sounds to compare this record to, or reasons you should listen to it besides these two: First, SWAG II—the double-album that fully contains and expands upon its predecessor SWAG from a month or so earlier—is simply, damn good. It’s quiet and understated, and the slow-burn of DEVOTION gets to me every time. Second, Swag II is proof that things are not aways what they seem, that artists can grow up, or evolve, or change when they’re allowed to, or when they give themselves permission. That it’s time to stop being so dang judgy about everyone and everything and give people, and art, a chance. And, SWAG II’s MOVING FAST through OPEN UP YOUR HEART is one of my favorite five-song passes within any album.

Coachella this year, by the way? In case you hadn’t heard, Biebs blew it up. He did headline, and his songs went viral for months after. Car stereos, ballparks, the World Cup. He’s much more than that overexposed little kid who has somehow weathered the ups-and-downs of overexposed superstardom, if not always smoothly, then with humanness. Listen to this record. You won’t regret it.

Baby

Dijon, 2025

I’ve talked about Baby before, specifically using Dijon’s album to demonstrate how we might successfully mine our artistic influences to craft something that’s uniquely ours. This album is for those of us who deeply miss The Purple One, yes, but it’s also for anyone who appreciates a creative cacophony of sound. As with Bridgers Lost Weekend, Baby—Dijon’s love letter to his wife and infant son—is best experienced front-to back and as one unit. The songs flow into each other, so rather than isolating my favorite lyrics, I pulled from the opening track so that you might be especially inclined to start from the beginning with this one. We’re X-ers raised on vinyl and cassette tapes. We remember how to start at the beginning, right?

I will say it again: I think Dijon has the potential to surpass Prince in creativity and reach. He’s also a fantastic producer—he’s pals with Biebs and his production cred is a big part of why SWAG took off like it did. Dijon shows up on SABLE/fABLE, too. I’ve had tickets to see Dijon three different times in the past year and for various reasons, I’ve missed all the shows. I’ve been told he’s phenomenal live—the songs never sound exactly like the record, or even all that similar from performance to performance. I did witness this, in a way—via Couch-ella on YouTube. His Weekend One performance exploded my brain. If he can do that to my head over the TV, I can hardly imagine what will happen to my body when I finally do see Dijon live.

Until that time, let’s listen to some records, shall we?

And there’s more:

💫 Here’s my 10-part disability and breast cancer story and podcast, a serialized memoir:

✍️ Here’s my Thirteen Albums That Make Us Better Writers series:

August marks my thirtieth year in San Francisco—by far my longest and most successful love affair. Today I’m spreading the love by sharing ten places downtown and along the northeastern waterfront of San Francisco that have brought me love, joy and peace over the years. These are spots most tourists skip or just don’t know about, and all of them have passable-to-excellent wheelchair access.

All of the public places I mention have accessible restrooms, and when I know there is a particularly decent place for an accessible pit-stop within a private joint, I’ll call it out. Not that omission means the private establishment lacks accessible facilities. I selected these spots because repeatedly, they all have been exceptionally kind and accommodating to me and my three-wheeled scooter, never making me feel like my being there is a problem, even in architecturally old and sometimes cozy quarters. These are the sort of places that still pick up the phone if you have accessibility questions, too.

I’m starting downtown and with the northeastern waterfront because I lived there for four months recently while my apartment building was renovated. In exchange for no kitchen I was provided a daily food stipend, so this list is particularly food-and-drink heavy. These are the first spots that popped into my head; a tiny fraction of this part of San Francisco. I could’ve chosen 10 Southeastern Waterfront watering holes, or 10 Richmond District haunts, or 10 San Francisco art and music venues, and eventually, I will do that. There are many wheelchair accessible hidden gems in this fine city, and at least once a month, I will write about them. This is just the starter set.

Subscribe now

Before we get started, some tools:

• When I’m on a budget—which is usually, these days—Funcheap SF is my bible. Even after 30 years as a San Francisco resident, every time I go to Funcheap I find something I’ve never done before. Most of the time the listed events are free, or as the name implies, dirt cheap. Typically, the public events are good about maintaining accessibility of the walkways and sidewalks, too.

• Wondering how to get around? San Francisco’s public transportation system is one of the most accessible in the country. There are many accessible resources for riders—including a list of ramped cab operators that you can call individually, if you’d like—and they take paratransit cards. Within San Francisco city limits, wheelchair accessible rideshare has been great recently, too, even later at night. Go to your app of choice and click the WAV option. Odds are the drivers with wheelchair-accessible vehicles are waiting for you to ping them. The areas I will mention today are very walkable/rollable, too, especially if you have a power-operated mobility device. I’ll talk about hills, but much of what I’ll mention—especially along the waterfront—is quite flat.

10 accessible, affordable Downtown and Northeastern Waterfront gems

1. Cityscape Sky Bar, Hilton Union Square: Okay, so right off-the-bat I’m recommending a place that’s not exactly in the cheap category. But I lived at this hotel for four months while my building was renovated, and the Hilton was great to me. There are accessible rooms for various budgets, the staff are amazing, and the views, especially from the Sky Bar on the 46th floor, are phenomenal. It’s the highest 360-degree vantage point in the city, and well worth the slightly more primo glass of wine, especially at sunset.

2. Owl Tree: After you’ve taken in the fancy views, head here, just up the hill (doable with power devices and if you’re extra-buff, your manual wheelchair should make it okay). It’s San Francisco’s version of a dive bar, which, frankly, is not all that dive-y. Good Old-Fashioned’s and great cocktail prices overall, especially for downtown.

3. Johnny Foley’s: While the bar itself doesn’t have an accessible roll-up spot (likely due to historic preservation), there are lots of tables. The cocktails here are on the fancier side, but their Bangers & Mash is the real Irish deal. Thursday through Saturday nights feature Dueling Pianos downstairs—just ask the staff and they’ll show you the way. The pianists take requests and it’s ridiculous fun—especially if you happen to be there at the same time as a Millennial bridal party loving hard on Katy Perry and Christina Aguilera.

4. Magnin Street Cafe & Bistro: When I lived at the Hilton, this was my go-to breakfast and occasional dinner place, the kind of place that loves that you’re there and gives you discounts just for coming back. They’re some of the nicest folks in the city, they never rush you out, and whomever makes their dining room playlist has great taste in music.

5. Sears Fine Food: This one’s a bit uphill, too, but with gigantic, tasty portions and an unexpectedly huge amount of space inside, this Union Square landmark established in 1938 is worth the trek. Helpful, efficient staff, usually no waiting, and lots of cool thirties and forties kitsch. Contrary to what the website says, as of this writing, SFF is a breakfast, brunch and lunch only place.

6. Yerba Buena Gardens: Lest you think all I do is dine out, Yerba Buena Gardens is a great outdoor spot to hang, read, picnic by the fountains, or people-watch, if that’s your thing. Consult Funcheap on this one, because YBG frequently hosts free live music or other small art or food festivals. I’ve caught some great stuff here, just on the random.

   Share

7. Salesforce Park: I wish this Park had a name that better connoted the serene, unexpected city oasis that it is—alas. This 5.4 acre public space immediately outside the 4th floor of the mega-corporation’s massive Tower is packed with microclimates, flowers, plants and trees from all over the world, fully accessible walking and rolling paths, and lots of benches. There’s a beer garden and a coffee shop too, and occasional free live music. I promise you, if you need a break from the downtown bustle, you’ll forget you’re in the heart of the Financial District when you visit this place.

8. Pier 23: If you must come to San Francisco to see the sea lions and go to Alcatraz, I get it. After you’ve had your touristy fill of Pier 39, though, chill at Pier 23. With lots of outdoor seating in the back that’s right on the water, this is a casual spot for a drink, conversation, snacks or a meal—one with a great view. They have live music sometimes, too.

9. Musée Méchanique: OMG, I love this place. Right on Pier 45, this coin-operated vintage arcade has some of the weirdest, coolest operable arcade machines ever made, dating as far back as 1884. It’s free to visit, but if you trade in a five-dollar bill for some tokens, you’ll have guaranteed interactive fun for an hour or two. Fortune teller machines, vintage violins that play themselves, and good ol’ Pac-Man, too, if you’re looking for games from, say, 100 years later.

10. Biscuits and Blues: I couldn’t make a list of ten without including at least one music venue, and Biscuits and Blues is my choice this time. This is a sit-down blues joint with cocktail tables (accessible bathrooms) and soul food that matches the vibe. Tickets are affordable, and there is an early and late show most nights. If you get there right when doors open, you’ll have no problem being seated wherever you’d like, but you can call ahead to reserve a spot, too. The music is always fantastic, no matter who’s playing.

Thanks for reading! If you try or have tried any of the places mentioned in this post, or if you have questions, please let me know. I’d love to know what you think, and I’m happy to help any time. You can message me right here on Substack, or find me via LinkedIn.

💫 Here’s my 10-part disability and breast cancer story and podcast, a serialized memoir:

✍️ Here’s my Thirteen Albums That Make Us Better Writers series:

There are many more threads to come on invisible string!

The songs continue! There is much more to come, in slightly different formats. To make sure you don’t miss out, subscribe for free at: nicolebwriter.substack.com.

Subscribe now

Before listening to the podcast, I highly recommend you listen to the song. I’ve linked the official lyric video on YouTube and the track via Spotify and Apple Music.

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. You can also follow directly on Spotify. I’d love to hear from you. To receive my email posts, or leave a comment or message go to: nicolebwriter.substack.com. You can follow even more of invisible string on the Substack App.

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Thanks!

Share

I’m not gonna lie. When I went in for my first mammogram following my breast cancer diagnosis—after removal of my peach-sized tumor and multiple lymph nodes, after radiation, after drug therapy trials and my first post-treatment infusion—I was scared.

Not of the mammogram itself. I’d been through several by this point, and I knew that although the process would be uncomfortable, awkward and contortionistic, the mammography techs would work it out. I knew that it might take a small army of them to repeatedly maneuver and manipulate my three-wheeled scooter, my body, my breasts into the appropriate positions for 3-D imaging, and it did. There were three technicians plus one on stand-by, and a student who was there just to observe. They did make it work, though, and with positive attitudes. Zero complaining, actually. Even after realizing that the imaging machine was powered as low as it could go and this still wasn’t quite low enough for me, seated and at barely 5’2. There were no rumblings that the process was difficult, no mutterings under their breath that I should have brought personal help with me, no intimating that I was a problem in need of solving. These, all things I typically experience when I show up for medical treatments or tests.

This day, the team worked it out, asking me directly about the best way to help move my body when they needed to. Physically, the process was uncomfortable for me, but this was mostly because I’d had a gigantic tumor removed and my breast and armpit were still sore to the touch. The imaging process itself was smooth. My easiest mammogram yet.

Which doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. I’d made all the decisions, completed my treatment course, been through all the things. The only thing left to do was wait. I had no idea if micro-cancer cells remained in my body; if so, I’d have to go through everything again. I’d decided prior to imaging that day that if the cancer had returned, I’d add chemo the treatment mix; I’d passed on this the first time around because of potential complicating factors with my other physical conditions—my cellulitis especially. Skipping chemo was the one decision that still plagued me with doubt.

The mammogram team gently helped me put my sweatshirt back on and reposition my body in the scooter; they told me I’d know my results in a few days. I left the clinic with no idea what to do with myself. All my friends were at work or after school pick-ups, and I hadn’t planned for someone to come with me this time. The unusually sunny San Francisco afternoon did not match my mood in the slightest. I rolled straight into a matinee of Hamnet, which had opened earlier that day. I’m a huge Maggie O’Farrell fan so I’d been looking forward to this adaptation, but it turns out watching a film about a child in peril from inescapable plague and a family consumed with grief was either the best or the worst thing I could’ve done for myself in that moment.

I cried all the way through the thing. About everything: the movie, that I’d survived one year post-tumor, that I didn’t know whether or not I still had cancer, that the imaging techs had been so incredibly kind to me throughout. I cried because if I hadn’t put off my first mammogram for so long to begin with, I probably could’ve saved myself a lot of grief and life transition. I cried because I knew that I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, because no general practitioner I’d asked up to this point knew where an accessible mammogram machine might be, and because after fifty years of medical care, nothing in the healthcare system had been truly accessible to me up to that point. Nothing.

I cried because I’d been SO lucky, because the lymph node invasion could’ve been so much worse given the size of my tumor. Because I was grateful for the love of my friends and family, and that I’d finally decided to heed that Breast Cancer Awareness Month sign in the clinic lobby. I cried about everything, because everything was, and is, connected.

Subscribe now

I truly believe this. The older I get, the more I believe that there is no such thing as random; everything is connected, and not always immediately but hopefully eventually for the better. Often in ways invisible to us. Truthfully, this is not a new belief. I was—and am—like Taylor Swift in the song, reading in the park, thinking I’d meet somebody there. I did meet someone while reading in a courtyard once. It happens. I believe we are destined to meet certain people, and that these meetings change us. That we make decisions that lead us to unexpected places, sometimes with life-saving outcomes, and that this, as an invisible string, as a single thread of gold, is beautiful.

I also believe, though, that this same thread of interconnectedness—interdependence—can and does cause great harm when not handled with care. Previous to my breast cancer care, I’d certainly been harmed by the healthcare system. Even during my cancer care, there are things that could’ve gone better with just a few minutes more time and attention from the healthcare professional. Taken together, why I decided to start a newsletter called invisible string.

Unfortunately, this issue of harm isn’t unique to me, or even the U.S. heath care system. Sheri Denkensohn-Trott writes about her experience as a breast cancer-surviving wheelchair user with a spinal cord injury in: It’s Not Easy, But You Must Get Your Mammogram. Australian-based wheelchair user Carol Taylor was initially denied screening services that eventually saved her life. and that’s just two examples. There are people with disabilities speckling Instagram and TikTok trying to get the word out, trying to encourage wheelchair users and others to get screened. The majority of women who use wheelchairs still do not, however. The statistics vary depending the source and whether or not an appropriate sample size was collected in the first place. Sufficient data collection regarding Deaf and Disabled people is a massive ableist problem.

Generally, however, the breast cancer care model has built-in anti-ableist strategies that everyone can learn from. The remainder of this post takes what I’ve been writing about over the previous nine song strings and offers concrete anti-ableist strategies, solutions and actions that benefit disabled people, and especially people who use wheelchairs. I’ll use examples from healthcare, but many of these strategies and actions can and should be applied across all professions. This list is also, certainly, not exhaustive. It’s an anti-ableist primer to get you started, or keep you going. Please share, and read on.

Share

Examine your biases

I was welcomed into breast cancer care rapidly, and my wishes and desires were priority from the start. In my general medical care, though, procedures are skipped, and often, assumptions are made that it would be too difficult for the healthcare system to accommodate me. I am rarely asked what I want, and even when I volunteer these things, often, my desires are brushed aside. Similarly, hospitals and skilled nursing facilities have asked me to wait for too long, forced me to sit in my own urine, for example, rather than take the time to help me transfer to a to a toilet. Some of this has to do with broken parts of the system, which I will get into. It all starts, though, I think, with the value that we place on disability.

Does disability feel “good” or “bad?” Is it something that needs to be “cured” or “fixed?” Does disability make one “less than” someone who is not disabled? These are important questions to ask, and ask in a way which is as brutally honest with yourself as possible. I have ableist attitudes, too, that I need to keep in check. When disability is placed within a hierarchy—even subconsciously—avoidance happens. I’ll get to you later (or not at all) happens. Trauma from repeated negative and less-than-dignified treatment happens, this way. Keeps people with disabilities from returning for appropriate healthcare.

In cancer care, everything moves quickly and on equal footing, because cancer does not discriminate. Spread can worsen exponentially in anyone. The goal in cancer treatment is: remove the cancer. There are no other priorities. In the model that I experienced, everyone goes through triage clinic, everyone is taught about their specific cancer type and potential impacts, asked their opinion, treated with dignity and respect. There is, seemingly, very little bias in the cancer care model.

But, I shouldn’t have to get cancer to experience this.

Assume “with” rather than “for”

A huge tenet of within disability community is interdependence. The idea that people with disabilities live independent lives is largely a myth. A controversial one, perhaps, but when you think about it, all of us, regardless of disability, are interdependent. Systems must work, relationships must form and be maintained, in order for humans to thrive. Independence assumes alone, interdependence assumes with others. Deaf and Disability communities have promoted interdependence for decades, the mutual benefit of working together. If I hire a caregiver or use an accessible taxi or ride share service, say, they are helping me get where I need to go safely and efficiently; I am compensating them. Working together, we both win.

Ableism assumes that you are “helping” a disabled person for their benefit only. There is an inherent hierarchy created in this assumption that automatically devalues people with disabilities, making them “less than,” whether or not that was the “helper’s” original intention.

In cancer care, the oncologist, radiologist, surgeon and all the techs want to do their jobs—remove the cancer—as efficiently as possible. They assume a triage-based case management approach, one that takes the entirety of the person’s care into account. It is to the team’s benefit to ask the person receiving care exactly what they want and how they prefer to proceed with their treatment. The clock is ticking, and everyone’s in it together.

Take systems into account, not just the appointment

Besides trauma borne from implicit or explicit biases, broken or inadequate systems contribute to a disabled person’s choice to seek out appropriate healthcare. Insurance authorization needs to work, transportation needs to work, for example, and if they don’t, accommodations must be made, without the person with the disability needing to arduously beg and plead. Some people with physical disabilities have helpers, caregivers and attendants, not all. Some are paying for his help out-of-pocket, others through partial benefits with built-in income caps. Some can afford to have this person come with them to assist during an appointment, others cannot, or do not have someone available for that particular time slot. For people with disabilities, the experience is about so much more than just being in the room, receiving care.

In my cancer care experience, the triage model adopted definitely helped us tackle some pieces of the overall system, but much of it I still had to tackle by myself, through fierce self-advocacy. I educated my oncologist and surgeon, the anesthesiologist, the clinic social worker and radiation treatment site manager. I requested and received accommodations. It was a lot of work. Taking the time to learn the interconnectivity of systems so that the individual with the disability doesn’t have to advocate alone is one anti-ableist strategy that goes a long way toward warmer, more welcoming environments for disabled people.

Ableist-based discrimination against women with disabilities does not discriminate by country. This Australian news story directly demonstrates one way that breast cancer screening of wheelchair users is possible.

Aquire the tools, learn how to use them

As someone who cannot currently transfer from my three-wheeled scooter without the aide of a standing or hoyer lift, having the appropriate equipment available for wheelchair users—and knowing how to use this equipment, is one of the most basic and attainable anti-ableist strategies out there. As I mentioned in a previous entry, wheelchair accessible scales are not a helpful measure of body weight without an accompanying transfer device, and these devices are even less helpful if, unbeknownst to the staff, they are gathering dust in a supply closet. With accessible mammography, an imaging machine that is height adjustable is essential, an adjustable machine with a breast plate which also adjusts and tilts is even better.

For some wheelchair users, alternatives to these suggestions may need to be used. There is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to disability aides, but you need as many options at your disposal as possible. A few thousand dollars, a few hundred spent on a piece of equipment, an exam table, an evacuation chair, is nothing compared to the millions of dollars that add up when a person—disabled or not at the time—reaches that state of emergency. Ingenuity may be required, but with a little creativity and the right tools, as my radiology techs did for me, much is possible.

Advocate for time, staffing

Another thing that cancer care has going for it that simply does not seem to be as readily available in other healthcare or skilled nursing settings is appropriate, dedicated time and staffing. It just takes a few extra minutes, a few extra hands, to assist with that transfer, and taking several more of those minutes to really listen to where the person with the disability is coming from, to understand our full history and yes, sometimes listen to stories of our trauma, is crucial. Taking this time, and having appropriate physical support on hand when needed, builds trust and lessens the likelihood that the disabled person is going to feel demeaned, disrespected or pushed aside. Which in turn, may make the disabled person more receptive to receiving care, or trying things they hadn’t considered before.

My cancer care team taking this time, and physically supporting me when needed, certainly made me feel valued. The 15-minute treatment sessions and skeleton support crew models embedded within most healthcare systems do not support this, though. We have to advocate for more time and support. We must.

Provide ongoing training, facilitated by people with disabilities (and pay us for it ).

Effective anti-ableist strategies can be generalized to a degree, but best practice is to provide ongoing anti-ableist training for all members of your organization, training which is catered to your organization’s mission and goals. Every disabled person I know has first-hand experience with discrimination, and many of us have lived and professional examples of successful strategies and accommodation solutions, too. We are the best facilitators for this kind of conversation, and we’re often connected to other marginalized and multi-marginalized community members who can also lend perspective.

Subscribe now

Oh, and by the way? Disabled people are not mythical sages or guardian angels who float down to Earth until a bell rings, like in the much-beloved It’s A Wonderful Life. We are people with lived experience, with professional lives. We have bills and rent and mortgages and kids. People with disabilities are asked to advise and train for free—or for much less than the going professional rate—all the time. This, one of the cruelest ableist acts there is. The solution is simple: Build competitive, market-rate training compensation into your budget. Pay us, please.

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the lyric video for invisible string (from folklore by Taylor Swift, 2020).

Follow and support disability advocacy organizations, and disabled writers and journalists.

Even if you’re not directly linked to healthcare or another employer, if you are retired, a volunteer, or someone just starting out in your career, there are still things you can do to support and promote anti-ableism. There are many disability organizations out there that coordinate calls to action, that are looking for people to speak up in favor of maintaining and advancing the rights of Deaf and Disabled people. The American Association of People with Disabilities is one organizational newsletter I subscribe to, but there are so many others active at federal, state, local and international levels, all of them working tirelessly. and —right here on Substack—are fantastic examples of the many of us who are writing, fighting, and striving to end ableism. Seek out the voices that resonate with you. Then, when needed, write that letter. Call your legislatives. Help make disability visible on social media. Find your single thread of gold that ties you to the disability experience, and lift it up. Your efforts to do so make things better for everyone.

I could go on. Obviously, I’ve just scratched the surface, but hopefully these ideas—and my ten song-strings taken as whole—have offered a glimpse into the disability experience. The experience as I see it, anyway. Maybe you’ve even given Taylor Swift a spin now, too? Because of breast cancer, I did, and now, I proudly call myself a Swiftie.

My mammogram by the way? The one I had right before I cried my eyes out at Hamnet? It came back clean. As of this writing—to my knowledge, at least—I am cancer-free.

What’s next for invisible string? I have a lot planned, actually. Another song-string, although it may not look exactly like this one did. I’ll also be talking about disability representation in fiction, and why it’s so important to me to write about love (and from a place of love) all the time. I’m also toying with the idea of a book group for subscribers, and some resources for writers and others, too—after I’ve boosted my subscriber base just a wee bit more.

If you haven’t already, I hope you do subscribe. Thanks for being part of my invisible string, and see you next time.

Subscribe now

Community is how I made it through cancer, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Please also feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.

Share invisible string

Thanks for reading my love story in ten songs about breast cancer, disability, access…and Taylor Swift. This chapter focusses on healthcare. If you missed one, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far.

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. Your engagement helps stories be seen. If you already subscribe and would like to upgrade, that’s great! Either way, I truly appreciate your being here.

Before listening to the podcast, I highly recommend you listen to the song. I’ve linked the official lyric video on YouTube and the track via Spotify and Apple Music.

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. You can also follow directly on Spotify. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message.

If you ‘d like to receive my email posts, please subscribe at nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

Subscribe now

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Thanks!

Share

Okay. I’ve put off writing this entry long enough.

To be fair, the past seven weeks have been busy. I’ve moved—for the fourth time in eighteen months—and this time, due to reduced closet space in my new apartment, I forced myself to place every single dusty, well-loved item in my possession in front of my face so I could do the Marie Kondo thank you for your service assessment with it. I released at least a third of my belongings this way—stuff I’d accumulated over nearly thirty years in San Francisco. It took me two solid weeks to go through everything, make my space livable enough. Then, I drafted a detailed proposal for some contract work and updated my resume AGAIN as supplement—I’m still waiting to hear if I got the gig. Then, I had an infusion that walloped me over the head for days. Next, a writers magazine I subscribe to randomly fell open to a call for poetry manuscripts from disabled poets—one with no entry fee. I decided this was a sign from the Universe and therefore, stopped everything for seventeen consecutive days to sort through my writing files and edit, re-write and create afresh poems spanning twenty-five years. I collected them into a suitable manuscript and submitted the thing. The collection is more than suitable, actually. I’m pretty proud of how it turned out. My apartment, too. When it comes to my creative endeavors, this is not something I admit freely.

In the middle of all this, Taylor Swift actually married Mr. Football, something I still can’t quite believe happened—that she chose him, theoretically forever—but as Mirrorball says, here we are. Then I was watching and rewatching Christopher Nolan movies—The Odyssey, his Batman Trilogy—I have tickets to see The Odyssey again in 70-mm IMAX at the end of this month, too, but the point is, Nolan does not do short, so this was many hours. Many. And then…

And then. There is no way around it. I’ve been putting off writing about happiness.

Subscribe now

I knew from the day that I first sat in the park outlining the concept and arc for my ten-song trek through healthcare and breast cancer—choosing the tracks from Taylor’s catalogue that most resonate with me and best illuminate my experiences and varied emotional states throughout—that the penultimate entry in the series would be the hardest for me to write, the most challenging. Even now, even though I’ve had the framework for this post drafted since the day after I wrote about my trip through red-pill blue-pill post-cancer treatment therapies, I’m not sure where I’ll be by the end of this entry, what point I will have made. But, I can’t put this off any longer. So, I guess I’ll just pick up where I left off last time. See what bubbles up.

By the summer of 2025 I was unemployed, exhausted, and still experimenting with various post-cancer preventative drug therapies, all of which made me feel like shit in different ways. One left me in serious physical pain, the next inexplicably weepy, the third with jitters and heart palpitations, which is less than ideal for someone born with a neuromuscular disorder. As I mentioned last time, I had zero sex drive, and felt the farthest thing from body-positive. I had a string of caregivers who for one reason or another didn’t work out, which meant constant training and retraining regarding the best and safest ways to assist me. I knew I was going to need to temporarily move by the end of the year due to scheduled building renovations, but I didn’t know what kind of transient options would be available and accessible to me, and meanwhile, my existing apartment flooded, so I had to move within the building for five months just to move out again.

Along with this, the logistics of being a disabled person with suddenly dramatically reduced income were extremely complicated—so complex that this will likely be the primary subject of my next ten-song string. Emotionally, I felt like I was in someone else’s skin, living a strangers life. What was I doing going to Trader Joe’s at 10:30 in the morning on a Tuesday? I was supposed to be at work. This is where I’d been, full time and nearly every day, for twenty-nine years. My life was strange, to say the least.

It wasn’t all bad, though. I was asked to facilitate a large group community workshop almost right after I left my job, which got me back on the professional horse. I was asked to provide event accessibility feedback in exchange for festival tickets. Given how much I love music, this was a no-brainer. Wheelchair accessible on-demand rideshare started working effectively in San Francisco for the first time, well, ever, and I was able to go places with my friends—in a timely way and often in the same vehicle—without needing to wait 90 minutes for a ramped cab to show up, or take the excessively long route via public transportation. This was a game changer. I went to impromptu brunches across town, dinner parties. That chaos I mentioned earlier? All of this was still happening, but through it all, I felt welcomed, wanted, loved. Part of something bigger than myself, even. The way I’d always wanted to feel. The way I deserved to feel, I thought. I was happy.

Then, as autumn approached, my oncologist referred me to for a cervical cancer consult, which she thought it unlikely I had (and, thankfully, to my knowledge, I don’t), but she wanted me to understand the warning signs, just in case. The realization that I would need to monitor for not just breast cancer, but EVERY TYPE OF CANCER for the REST OF MY LIFE really threw me. I mean, almost off a cliff. I’ve never been one to throw myself a pity-party, probably thanks to my Midwestern suck-it-up upbringing, and because—despite how frequently it’s come up over the course of these writings—I hate crying. Once my flood gates are thrown open, the tears flow for days. It takes an army to close the gate again. I’d rather not even start.

So. self-pity is not my thing. But CP plus fifteen surgeries plus a torn rotator cuff and bicep plus a hit-and-run followed by a metal plate in my leg, plus an aggregate six months in skilled nursing and physical rehab, plus cellulitis, plus dangerously bad Covid, plus breast cancer, plus monitoring every other kind of cancer for the rest of my life? Cut me some effing slack, universe.

Share

What pushed me over that cliff, though, were two unexpected and markedly different conversations with two people close to me, each occurring less than a month apart. Both talks surprised me greatly. The details of what happened in each are private. How I felt after, I’ll share.

The first conversation left me feeling confused and worried, and the other, resolved, in a I’m not gonna take this anymore kind of way. I didn’t have the energy, or the reserve. Both conversations consumed me with profound sadness, and anger, for a time. I was so consumed that I sought out a therapist, something I hadn’t done since college, something I arguably should have done well before my cancer diagnosis—I’d had plenty of reason for this, obviously. I stayed in therapy weekly for six months, until I couldn’t justify the expense anymore, until I found myself involuntarily calculating just how much money I’d spent crying in front of another person for fifty minutes at a pop. My therapist and I agreed that this kind of financial spinning was unproductive and even detrimental to my progress, so I paused treatment indefinitely and applied for more jobs.

Of all the songs in Taylor’s catalogue, happiness, from 2020’s evermore, is my favorite. It’s the song responsible for transforming me into a Swiftie—there, I said it—I’m a fan who’s well past her Swiftie prime. I’m geriatric compared to most fans in the Swiftie pocket. But, happiness is raw, it is honest, poetic and, thanks again to Aaron Dessner, exquisitely well-orchestrated. Because of this, I’m a true Swiftie, now. More than this, though, it’s the story happiness tells that draws me toward it.

A wise story, a tender, even etherial but brutal one, a universal one, right from the start: Honey, when I’m above the trees/I see this for what it is. With enough distance and perspective, most of us can appreciate what we’ve had, what we’ve lost. If we’re lucky, eventually, we recognize the part we played in all of it, too. Happiness is not your average breakup song though, or even a typical track about the end of a relationship. What makes happiness unique, I think, what makes it superior songwriting, is that happiness takes the rarest of all pop-ballad paths: two-way acknowledgement. An assumption of equal responsibility for what happened.

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the lyric video for happiness (from evermore by Taylor Swift, 2020).

Share

Think about it. From as far back as Billie Holiday or Ray Charles, from before them, even, the modern pop ballad traditionally is written from the point of view of individual pain, heartbreak, or revenge. A one-way street: in my Solitude, Hit the Road, Jack. Even my current favorite pop ballad, Olivia Rodrigo’s absolutely gorgeous begged, is one-sided heartache. Happiness says: There’ll be happiness after you/but there was happiness because of you, and later: No one teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you/and you know you’ve hurt him too. It takes two people to make a relationship work, hurt, or fall apart. Relationships are never solo endeavors, happiness says, so I’m not going to treat ours like it was one.

Happiness has layers of self-awareness that transcend relationship dynamics, though. It’s also about reinventing yourself, about how petrifying this can be when you don’t feel ready but you know that you have to change anyway, and because you have no other choice, eventually, transformation will happen. It’s about knowing that your pain is part of you, that life will present you with chasms that you may or may not be able to traverse, but regardless of how you are feeling in any one moment, there will always be sunrise.

The sun will always come up, even when we wish it wouldn’t, or even try to will it not to. Sunrise is out of our control. It will happen, and will happen again, so speak your truth, acknowledge the pain, remember the good.

Regarding the two conversations I had last autumn, one of my relationships is fine, I think, or getting there. We may even be stronger than we were before, in some ways, for having talked. The other relationship I am less certain about, but I hope we are okay enough. I know that both conversations exposed a two-way pain that wouldn’t have hurt so much we didn’t care so much. Love so much.

As for the larger question: Am I happy? I’ve had a year to think about it now and my honest answer is: I don’t know. I even thought when I started this post—more than several hours ago now—that by the time I got to the end that I might know the answer to this question—I don’t. I do know that I’m not sad, or discontented. That I am surrounded by the things and people who mean something to me. I know that I’m in the process of reinventing myself, that I’ve been working on this, hard. I’ll expand on this within my next ten-song string.

I know that through this series, I’ve been accomplishing what I set out to do: write about my experience as a disabled breast cancer survivor navigating a healthcare system with broken pieces in a way that resonates with me, and hopefully, others, too. I hope my story will continue to reach people who need to read it. This is the most I can hope for and the thing I want now over everything else. This, I am certain about.

In my final post for this particular string, I am going to do my best to tie all the pieces I’ve talked about—those broken and working—together. I’ll write through what we might be able to do about all of this, together. Until then, I’ll see you next sunrise.

Next up: invisible string (from folklore, 2020)

Community is how I made it through, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Please also feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.

Share invisible string

Thanks for reading my love story in ten songs about breast cancer, disability, access…and Taylor Swift. This chapter focusses on healthcare. If you missed one, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far.

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. Your engagement helps stories be seen. If you already subscribe and would like to upgrade, that’s great! Either way, I truly appreciate your being here.

I’m sure I’ll have much more to say on this topic. But for now, seek out the film if you can, and have a great week.

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. You can also follow directly on Spotify. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message.

If you ‘d like to receive my email posts, please subscribe at nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

Subscribe now

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Thanks!

Share

For this post, I recommend the full multimedia experience. I’ve linked Taylor’s featured song for this episode to official video on YouTube (the captions are accurate) and on Spotify and Apple Music.

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. You can also follow directly on Spotify. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message.

If you ‘d like to receive my email posts, please subscribe at nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

Subscribe now

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Thanks!

Share

I like to think that I’m a red pill kind of girl. Ever since Neo and The Matrix forever changed cinema in 1999, though, everyone from gentle-hearted gnostics to right-wing anti-feminists have commandeered and reappropriated the red pill-blue pill thing for their own purposes. So, I’ll explain what I mean.

I like to think that I’m the kind of person who, like Neo, chooses to find out how deep the rabbit hole goes, all the while being present and awake to the happenings of the real world. I’m not the blue pill person; the one who resigns to stay in bed and believe in fantasy, in alternate reality. I’m a most-of-the-time optimist-meets-realist who tries to make informed choices and not intentionally hurt people. As a life-long wheelchair rider, I’ve lived my life pragmatically, or have been forced to, maybe. Access barriers, especially related to availability of accessible transportation and the financial constraints of working interdependently with personal caregivers, mean that consistently throughout my life I’ve made practical, thoughtful, necessary choices with my time and money—professionally, and in play. In love, too, I think. This one, probably to my detriment.

Everything changed after my radiation treatments ended, though.

I’m going to be honest here and say that of all I’ve written about my breast cancer journey so far, the stuff I’m going cover through songs eight and nine is the most difficult for me, the most meandering, with an endpoint that I am trying to write through to figure out. I’m having a hard time typing these words today, thinking about what to write next, likely because this part of my journey was simultaneously the most joyous and the most difficult. I’ll try to explain as I go, but it might not come out as a straight line this time.

Similarly to my decisions around whether or not to move forward with chemotherapy, medically, the decisions that I made post-radiation are not ones I recommend for other people contemplating appropriate cancer prevention therapies for themselves. In fact, I have a check-in appointment with my oncologist two weeks from tomorrow and I guarantee you she’ll spend most of the appointment trying to convince me to change the direction of my post-radiation treatment course, despite the fact that I made the initial decisions almost nine months ago now. We’ll see what happens in a few weeks. I’m not sure what I’ll do, yet.

I’ll start with the medical stuff. After the surgery-chemo-radiation trilogy (or whichever permutation of this combo is most appropriate for the kind of cancer that you have), the conversation changes from killing any straggling cancer cells to keeping these cells from returning. For me, someone who’d had an estrogen-attaching cancer, the strategy was to begin a sequence of estrogen-blocking medications; pills that I’d be prescribed daily for at least ten years, maybe longer. As with most hormone-manipulating therapies, however, they all had potential side effects. Most people can tolerate them, my oncologist had said.

The thing about me though? I’d make a horrible drug addict. I’m more sensitive to drugs than most people, perhaps because narcotics and other pain management drugs were injected into me as part of orthopedic procedures before the age of five. Back then, I was also (briefly) prescribed Valium for CP-based spasticity management, which had the opposite effect it typically does, making me one hyper AF kid. The more sophisticated spasticity management medications of today I use sparingly—as a last resort and at half or quarter dose—and even then, only if I’m able to sacrifice the entire day to nothing but zoning out in front of the TV. Five years ago, immediately following an escooter hit-and-run, emergency shin & ankle reconstruction and massive amounts of morphine, anesthesia and whatever-the-hell else 10-level pain cocktail fed to my veins, I had to be intubated so that I wouldn’t choke on my own vomit. The next day, my surgeon joked that I must be a really cheap date. Which, for the record, I found hysterically funny. Anyway, you get the point. Drugs and me, typically, are no good.

So, when I knew I’d be going through a series estrogen blocker trials to find one that I could tolerate, obviously I was less than thrilled. I was game, though. I was a red-pill realist after all, and didn’t want to go through cancer treatments ever again.

Share

The first blocker I tried was horrible. By the end of the day, I was in so much pain that I could barely focus on work. I switched to a second blocker, which was better, but I went up a size in jeans, and my focus was still off. I left my job, tried a third drug. This one made me moody and irritable, weight gain was still a problem, and bonus, I had absolutely zero sex drive. We can put you on antidepressants, my oncologist said. Weight loss drugs, she offered, but you’d have to go to a class first. The antidepressants I refused, the class I agreed to. The class was about more drug trials over the course of a year, though, and it was unclear how these drugs might interact with the estrogen blockers and my CP. By late August 2025, I was again in my oncologist’s office, nearly in tears. There’s one more we can try, she said. But you’ll need to go across the hall and get an EKG right now so that I’m sure your heart can handle it.

Reluctantly, I got the EKG. On the way home, I ran into a former colleague who asked me if I was okay. Not really, I said. I assured her that there was nothing she could do to help, cancelled my plans for that evening, and if I’d been able to get out of my scooter without help, I would’ve curled up in bed and shut out the real world for the rest of the night. My life felt precarious and as uncertain as ever. My real world, frankly, sucked. Maybe, I thought, I was a blue pill kind of girl after all.

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the video of Delicate (from Reputation by Taylor Swift, 2017). The YouTube captions are accurate on this one.

Subscribe now

In 2017, Taylor had just come off the monster success of her 1989 album and tour. As often happens with people who’ve officially achieved megastardom, as she penned, the haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate, and they did, in droves. She was criticized for everything—from her romantic choices to her…make-believe? Real? friend-posse wars. She responded in kind with Reputation, an unapologetically gritty, borderline sinister commentary on the forces that drive us to do dark things, things we wouldn’t contemplate under ordinary circumstances.

On the surface, Reputation’s ‘Delicate’ is about meeting someone in a dive bar whom you have the urge to jump on the spot. Beneath this, Delicate is about fine lines and uncertainties: between good and bad, too soon and not soon enough. It’s about questioning choices made in the moment. About meeting someone who just might understand the core of you, despite how others might judge.

After trying the fourth drug for a period of time, I gave up on this one, too. I opted for quarterly bone-strengthening infusions for at least three years, and vitamin D supplements for a lifetime. In the end, a blue pill kind of choice, I suppose. But, as the autumn of 2025 approached, I’d been exhausted by medical appointments and blocker trials, by wondering whether or not I’d made the best treatment choices in the first place. On top of this, professionally, I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. I had no mojo, but I desperately wanted to feel like I might be able to get it back. Be like the girl Taylor sings about in Delicate, the one who lived in the moment and confidently took her guy to the back of the bar.

I kind of was that girl, though. Creatively, my summer had been extremely productive. I’d finished my novel to strong peer reviews, and was prepping it for agent shopping. Socially, I’d been doing things, going places, out with friends, having fun. Living my life, 100% red pill girl.

I was happy, right?

That’s next time.

Next up: happiness (from evermore, 2020 )

Share invisible string

Community is how I made it through, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Please also feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.

Thanks for reading my love story in ten songs about breast cancer, disability, access…and Taylor Swift. This chapter focusses on healthcare. If you missed one, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far.

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. Your engagement helps stories be seen. If you already subscribe and would like to upgrade, that’s great! Either way, I truly appreciate your being here.

My paid subscriber gift this month is a selection of the best from this lot, plus one previously published in an Oakland Public Library anthology. Some of my poems are better than others; several I like quite a bit. All of them are snapshots of a moment in time. Thank you for reading, and for traveling with me. I hope you enjoy them.

postcard love 

i.

in the dollhouse
we fill tiny bathtubs
with the whorls 
of our thumbprints 
the whorls make waves
the waves overtake us
we ride like mavericks
through the master bedroom & out
the second story window
(the one with the white trim &
the tiny blue shutters)
we make a boat 
out of the flower box
& float amidst 
the pink geraniums. 



ii.

i was born by accident 
before broken bottle bar towns and you betcha
before cracked bats and hot dog stands and Buddy Guy
before golden-gated bridges and punk-eyed kids and rose-inked skin
with an all-access pass to the city of my body
broken by accident		broken by birth 
mapped with hard, invisible beauty—
meant through the detours and the contours and the plain
to become my dwelling place.



iii. 

my skin absorbs the rain
the damp sinks into my bones
making me cold, colder than the days
of twenty below i remember, 
colder than that winter day when you
broke my hope.  at home, 

Read more

Thanks for taking the time, for reading and listening, and for being here. See you soon.

Subscribing (and, if you like a post, clicking on the little heart) helps Substack users and life-searchers discover invisible string. This is the world we live in now, so thank you so much.

Hi y’all: This Friday, I’m moving for the fourth (or is it technically the sixth?) time in the last 16 months. I also have a bunch of life stuff to do this week.

I am fine, by the way. Bodily, anyway. I’m sure I’ll write about it all in the next chapter. That’s where you come in.

As my subscribers know, I’ve been using Taylor Swift’s music as the lens for my first set of ten songs. Sometime next week, I’ll be posting Song Eight: Delicate. With two more to go after that, it’s time to think about my lens for the next set.

So, I’ve created a brief poll:

I’d love to know what you think on anything related to invisible string so far. I’m percolating on some cool ideas for what’s next; I’m excited, and I hope you will be too. Please feel free to leave a comment or message me.

Thanks for taking the time, for reading and listening, and for being here. See you soon.

Subscribe now

Subscribing (and, if you like a post, clicking on the little heart) helps Substack users and life-searchers discover invisible string. This is the world we live in now, so thank you so much.

hi, everyone: Today, in a slightly revised way than what I’d originally sent to my email subscribers, I talk about Taylor Swift’s Lover (from Lover, 2019), and what it takes to write about love.

If Lover is not yet engrained in your soul, I recommend the full multimedia experience. I’ve linked Taylor’s featured song for this episode to lyric video on YouTube, and on Spotify and Apple Music.

invisible string is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. You can also follow directly on Spotify. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message.

If you ‘d like to receive my email posts, please subscribe at nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Thanks!

Let’s get back to Taylor Swift, shall we?

One of the many reasons for my growing appreciation for Taylor, and one of the things that makes her music appealing to so many, most likely, is that central to 99.9% of her songs is one thing: Love. New love, endearing love, flirty love, dirty love, perhaps love. Love’s obsessions, frustrations, yearnings, joys. Moving on from love, and holding up the idea of being in love: the hope, the deep sadness, the relief, the mystery and misery of these things. Taylor sings about all of it.

I suppose I could argue that, like two of my favorite lines from Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, romantic love and its consequences is what 99.9% of all of pop music is about: Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable, or was I miserable because I listened to pop music? This, and the nature of love itself, are unanswerable, existential concepts that most of us never truly wrap our brain around and yet, we chase them. Again and again. As Taylor sings: Forever and ever.

For her, though, love is not conceptual; it’s real. Personal. She’d be the first to admit this and she has, jokingly winking repeatedly during the Eras tour about how she “tends” to write her personal life into her songs. True Swifties know which of her songs (allegedly) reference real, specific relationship happenings between her and Jake Gyllenhaal, Matt Healy, Mr. Football and all the others. Taylor splays her love-life like a diary, one that we know she’s left wide open and to be discovered on purpose, and yet, we almost feel guilty for peeking inside.

The details in her songs feel almost too personal to share with the world. Whether or they’re true or just expertly crafted lyrics, like a drug, we inject every word that Taylor sings about love. Because love, and all that comes with it, is nothing if it’s not personal first. It’s the personal that connects us with art, and to each other.

Through to the end of my radiation treatments in the spring of 2025, this is what I believed.

Like Taylor, I think about love all the time. My culminating MFA project was a mixed-genre memoir detailing the ups-and-downs of my love life through to my late twenties. I wrote poems, performed songs in public, all about romantic love. Then, I took a long break—like a decade-long break—from producing anything creative at all. When I emerged from this hiatus, what’s the first thing I did? I drafted a full-length novel called Creating Love. I even started leaving my Christmas tree up well beyond January, redecorating it specifically for Valentine’s Day, as if this act alone might somehow manifest into existence everything I wished for today and hoped for from love in the future.

I’m kind of a one trick pony, really, and always have been. In one of my earliest poetry workshops, an oral critique I received from a classmate was: I wish [your poem] was about something more than just the boy-girl thing. I looked at him, partly crestfallen, partly confused. Little baby twenty-three year-old writer me had poured my heart into that poem, and what else was there to write about, if not love?

Before I could do something mortifying like, cry in workshop, our instructor (expertly) threw me a life preserver: We write through our muses until they no longer serve us, she said. Until we understand what our writing is asking us to explore. This shut my critiquer the hell up, and lifted my spirits, too.

On I went, writing and writing again, about love. For decades. With a few exceptions, most of my writing remained unpublished and unread by others. For a long time, I chalked this up to my not trying hard enough to get my work out there.

This wasn’t why, though.

Much like Taylor’s songs, I’d filled my writing with the kinds of personal details that readers like. I gave them the key to my diary, let them look through that peephole. But, I’d only shared details. Emotionally, I hadn’t cracked the surface, or exhausted my muse. Not completely, anyway.

I didn’t fully grasp Lover, the title track from Taylor’s 2019 album, until I saw the Eras tour concert film, around the time of my radiation treatments. What do you mean, Nicole? you say. This song is pretty straightforward. Taylor states its meaning boldly, directly, right there in the song’s bridge: I take this magnetic force of a man to be my…Lover! Yes, I get this. Maybe what I mean is that I didn’t really understand Lover as anything more than just a sweet song until I saw Taylor perform it. Her out front strumming her guitar, her dancers gracefully fox-trotting around her, mixed and same-gendered couples alike. Wrapped in each other, swooning, swaying, heads on shoulders, like blankets to pillows. This was comfort. Romantic love for all, and at its heart-filled best.

Lover is more than this, though. I argue, as I’m sure other more seasoned Swifties have before me—and much more eloquently than I’m about to—that Lover is the first time that Taylor truly delves into a deeper understanding of what love is. With this song and it’s airy, hopeful questioning: Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close? Taylor transitions from the personal, to the vulnerable. From someone who tells all, to someone who feels all. She deeply cherishes the love she feels, she wants to hold on to it forever. But, she’s questioning. She has it now, but she’s afraid she might not have this love for all time. And we feel all of this along with her.

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the free lyric video of Lover (from Lover by Taylor Swift, 2019 ).

When I’d finished my radiation treatments, I was exhausted. But, as soon as I could manage it, I went back to work. I’d taken two extended leaves over the course of three months, and I needed to get my feet back on the ground, get back to normal. And I tried. I’d had an estrogen-attaching cancer, though, and at the urging of my oncologist, I was trying different hormone-blocking medications post-radiation, all of which had significant side effects for me. The least of which was an even deeper exhaustion. After about a month of more trying, I left my job.

No back-up plan, no anything really, except my to-the-bone exhaustion, and a whole hell of a lot of tears and worry. That night, I received a comfort food gift card from a group of my friends. The message on the card read, simply: You are loved.

The likely mastermind behind this gift would never take the credit, but he knows that I love him. What he might not know, though, is that with that act, and with those words in particular, I began to crack open. To move from the realm of the personal, into the realm of the vulnerable.

I understand now that more than personal details, it’s vulnerability that connects us all. Something that I’d not fully allowed in my writing, or in my life generally, before this.

I’m not all the way there, yet. Not even close, actually. But slowly, I’m moving closer.

I’ll say more next time.

Next up: Delicate (from Reputation, 2017)

(Community is how I got through this, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Please also feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.)

Thanks for reading my love story in ten songs about breast cancer, love, disability…and Taylor Swift. This chapter focusses on healthcare. If you missed one, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far.

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. It’s free, and your (literal) engagement (with the platform) helps stories like these be seen. If you already subscribe and feel like upgrading, that’s great, too. Either way, I truly appreciate your being here.

Subscribe now

Welcome to Chapter One, Song Six in my ten-song series about breast cancer, love and disability through the lens of music. This chapter is all about healthcare and how it could be (and sometimes is) done right, using Taylor Swift songs.

Today, I talk about Style (from 1989, Taylor’s Version), and I get granular about my experience with radiation.

Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them.

For the full multimedia experience, I’ve linked Taylor’s featured song for this episode to lyric video on YouTube, and on Spotify and Apple Music.

This podcast is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on my other episodes so far, they’re here. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message me at: nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. It’s free, and your engagement helps stories like these be seen.

This post is dedicated to the phenomenal radiology techs and staff at the Kaiser Cancer Treatment Center in South San Francisco. Y’all will never go out of style, and I hope, somehow, you see this. Thank you.

Welcome to Chapter One, Song Six in my ten-song series about breast cancer, love and disability through the lens of music. This chapter is all about healthcare and how it could be (and sometimes is) done right, using Taylor Swift songs.

If you’d like to follow in a serialized way, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far. Thanks for subscribing and following along. On we go…

Subscribe now

There are two things I believe wholeheartedly to be true: We are not alone in this universe, and there’s nothing better than a good movie montage, especially in a romcom. Katherine Heigl modeling her always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride gowns for James Marsden in 27 Dresses is one of my favorites, or pick any early Meg Ryan vehicle where she busily moves through her life as the seasons seamlessly change from autumn to winter to spring, or the training montages between Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing, which are (obviously) some of the best ever filmed. Johnny teaching Baby how to maintain her mambo frame just in time for their first big performance? Those practice lifts in the lake? The reel is playing in your mind right now, isn’t it?

The quintessential montage film for me, though, and the one deepest in my fibers, is Groundhog Day. If you’ve never seen it, Bill Murray plays a discontented TV weatherman who, for yet another year, begrudgingly covers whether or not the iconic woodchuck Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow on February 2. A snowstorm traps him and Andie MacDowell in the tiny Pennsylvania town after, and Bill becomes stuck in a time loop, reliving the same day —according to ScreenRant—approximately 12,400 times. Some days, he sweetly tries to win Andie’s affections. Other times, because the day is going to start over regardless of his actions, he engages in gluttonous, nefarious activities, without regret. The loop stops when Bill definitively learns his cosmic lessons, and at long last—spoiler alert—just may be on a path toward his true potential—with himself, and with Andie, too.

Without (much) hyperbole, this is what daily radiation treatments feel like. Thirty-six years—or in my case, 29 days that felt like 36 years—stuck in a perpetual time loop, until I reached the end of my treatment course. And if there’s one song meant to soundtrack my personal radiation montage, it’s Style from 1989 (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift. But, let me back up for a minute.

Mapping for my radiation treatments began on Valentine’s Day, 2025. The planning for my treatments started well before this. I’m going to get granular with this post, because most women with physical disabilities do not get mammograms, especially women who are wheelchair users. There are lots of reasons for this. Accessible mammography equipment isn’t locally available, or we don’t know where it is available, or we can’t get to the treatment center in the first place. Sometimes, the medical staff aren’t knowledgeable on the best ways to get a clear read from a sitting position (especially if the machine doesn’t quite go low enough), or perhaps, the most likely scenario: people with physical disabilities are afraid that all of these these things might be true, and so we do nothing.

We go without appropriate care because throughout our lives, we’ve been to the access barrier rodeo. So many times. Most of us still go there every day, in fact. There’s not enough evidence that healthcare and its related systems like transportation and employment can conveniently work for us, especially given the political climate in 2026. So, out of exhaustion, or fear, or both, we freeze. That’s why I’m writing this. To show that it can be done and so we must try, even if it’s a little bit hard. Because trying—or, when we feel like giving up, trying again—could save our lives.

The examples I’ll share now are just one set of solutions; the ones that worked for me. True access is individualized. It has to be, when it comes to screening and hopefully, saving lives. When taken together, though, individual examples eventually yield commonalities. This is also why I’m sharing my experience. To show attainable solutions that, with a little modification and creativity, might work for others, too.

My treatments were scheduled for 21 consecutive weekdays, usually in the afternoons. And, as almost everything does for wheelchair users, it all starts with transportation. If you can’t get to your treatment, nothing can happen at all.

I’m fortunate to live in a city with an accessible and mostly reliable public transportation system. However, because my health plan is part of an HMO, I’m limited to the treatment facilities that are part of that HMO. [The closest Radiation Center] is just a short drive down the freeway, one of the Cancer Clinic nurses said. Twenty-five minutes depending on traffic, but in the neighboring county. I don’t drive, though, or own an accessible vehicle. I’m eligible for paratransit—door-to-door accessible van or bus pick-ups—but a service hand-off (to a different van) needs to be coordinated each time at the county line. This, or the traditional public transit route, add up to at least two hours of total travel time, each way. Not feasible for a solo, single girl like myself, especially after the fatigue of daily treatments, which I knew would only get worse as the days wore on.

So, I requested an accommodation. First, to move my treatments to an out-of-network clinic within the city. This wasn’t denied, exactly, but my care team immediately asked what might work instead. Accessible taxi fare would cost me, at minimum, $150 dollars per day, round trip. I told them that spending over $3000 out-of-pocket for rides up-and-down a small stretch of 101 was unreasonable for me. So, they moved forward with my second accommodation request: to heavily subsidize my travel expenses. The team found an accessible ramped cab company that would accept a flat rate for guaranteed daily fare. The same driver took me from my apartment to the treatment center and back every time, which depending on traffic, took 20-45 minutes each way. Step one complete: Transportation solved.

Next, the mapping. This is when the radiation team does the pre-work of scanning your body and the precise treatment area to determine the exact body positioning needed to successfully radiate any lingering cancer cells. This position must be accurate to the millimeter, and to the exact inhale and exhale of your breath, every time. Every part of your body must be in the exact same position, no exceptions. Otherwise, you’ll be radiated in places you don’t need or want, which could potentially cause severe damage to your organs, or worse.

You’ll recall from my MRI experiences in my previous entry that lying perfectly still for any length of time is not possible for me. Here’s where the radiology team first started to innovate. They taped my forearm and hand above my head and onto the radiation table, so that these things would be securely out of the way of my breast and armpit areas during treatment. They made a mold for my back and knees. They developed a transfer system that was efficient—it was ingenious, really—but I’ll get to that.

The mapping process took about two hours to complete. The tube I was in this time was much less abrasive and similar to a CAT- or PET-scan machine; I was not closed in like an MRI, and there were no intolerable noises. In fact, the room was dark and quiet, and glow-stars dotted the ceiling. Midnight, no headlights, like Taylor’s song. I thought about so many things, lying there. About how much I love stars; how I could stare at them forever while contemplating everything up there, beyond what we know and can see. I thought about how I hoped that my decision to pass on chemo was the right choice. How it was Valentine’s Day, how my life-long attraction to James Dean daydream-types probably needed to be dealt with. How I felt so small in the universe, but was equally sure that I was not alone. How I had such a long road ahead of me, one that could end in burning flames…or paradise.

Then, one of the techs asks me if I’m okay. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the free lyric video of Style (from 1989, Taylor’s Version by Taylor Swift, 2023 ).

The final step on mapping day was to go in the radiation room and test how I might be transferred on to the exam table. I can stand, so I use a manual standing lift, commonly called a Sara Stedy, when I need to transfer. Basically, this is like a large dolly or grocery cart without the basket. As long as my feet are placed squarely on its platform, I can pull myself up to a standing position and half-sit on a set of paddles that come down behind me while someone rolls me to my destination. Apparently a guy (Mr. Stedy?) invented this device so that he could help his wife (Sara?) after she broke her hip. Thankfully, more and more medical facilities have transfer devices like these on hand today, although often I have to ask for one to be sought out, and once found, I show the staff how it works and they say: That’s what this thing is for! Anyway.

The techs push me into the radiology room, and, even after lowering the table as much as possible, we couldn’t get the standing machine close enough to the table to be helpful. It was Friday afternoon, and the techs assured me they would figure out something that would work in time for my first treatment. Which was Monday. Less than 72-hours from now.

Figure it out they did, though, and this is where it gets ingenious. I arrive at the Treatment Center, and the staff help me transfer from my three-wheeled scooter to the standing machine. I’m encouraged to make a pit stop next and I do; it’s not good to be distracted by having to pee while you’re trying to carefully fill your lungs with the precise volume of air while under a radiation machine. Next, they wheel me in the standing lift to a gurney that is low like my bed at home, and which has an inflatable transfer mat on it. I sit and they help me swing my legs over, and I lay on the gurney until it’s my turn in the radiation room. They wheel me there, and off comes my top, and I’m covered with a sheet. Then the mat is inflated, and I’m transferred (most times, quite smoothly) on to the radiation table, on top of the mold that’s already been set in place for my back and knees. Then, they deflate the mat, and off comes the sheet, and my arm and hand are taped down. Soon, all that’s left is to breathe, and to try to relax into the rest of it.

The ceiling in the radiation room was of a tropical sky. I was disappointed not to have stars to stare into, but after a while, I looked forward to seeing which tropical birds would be flying above me. The images on the ceiling didn’t change, but depending on which exact areas of my breast and armpit were being radiated that day, the tilt of the radiation table did. So, my exact view—sometimes palm trees, sometimes birds—was always a surprise.

There was music each time, too. Every day, the techs asked me what I would like to have on the overhead speakers during treatment. You’d think I would’ve chosen Taylor, but I could never decode my mood on the spot, so I’d let them select the tunes. Most of the time it was old-time jazz standards, sometimes Hawaiian music. Both of these were fine with me, calming. Anything too upbeat might distract me from inhaling and exhaling correctly when needed. One day, they randomly broadcasted OK Computer, which, with apology to my friend James, is one of the most depressing albums that Radiohead—or any band, save Mazzy Star—has ever recorded.

It was the perfect vibe, though. You cannot breathe at all while under the radiation waves, and it turns out it’s a lot of work to hold your breath at the precise volume, too, especially as your radiation course progresses and compounds and you are more and more fatigued: Inhale just a little bit more, Nicole. That’s great. Now exhale a little and… hold Nicole. You’re doing great, Nicole... It’s hard. And hard music is the soundtrack you need sometimes.

This is where my montage starts: Taxi-freeway-lobby-standing lift-bathroom-gurney-mold-raft inflate-transfer-music-tape-hold your breath for 30 seconds, 45, 15. A little bit more. A little less. Repeat—thump-kerthump of the freeway, breathe. Repeat. Music. Breathe. Transfer, kerthump, transfer, breathe. Music. My personal radiation montage. Counting my mapping day, 21 times over 29 days.

As I’ve alluded to, as my treatments progressed, everything became much harder for me. Moving, transferring, eating, even talking was fatiguing. One of my lymphatic invasions went up through my neck, so my throat was part of the treatment area. Eventually, I swallowed oral lidocaine before meals, sucked on cough drops constantly. It became increasingly difficult for me to hold my breath for 15 seconds, let alone 45, and on these days, the sessions took longer, because much like the MRI, if I couldn’t hold my breath in the exact position for long enough, they had to start over.

But every time, the radiology techs and the staff at the Caner Treatment Center repeated my routine with care and energy, even verve. With sensitivity that was genuine. With humor, sometimes with laughter, and always with pulsating precision and drive. Just like her song, with Style that Taylor herself would celebrate.

Even, dare I say, with love. That’s up next, if I’m brave enough to write about it.

Next up: Lover (from Lover, 2019 )

(Community is how I got through this, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who going through breast cancer who is looking to be connected, and/or people with disabilities searching for the survivor community, healthcare professionals wanting to learn, or someone who’s just an awesome Swiftie—please forward this to them. Please also feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.)

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. It’s free, and your engagement helps stories like these be seen.

Subscribe now

Welcome to Chapter One, Song Five in my ten-song series about breast cancer, love and disability through the lens of music. This chapter is all about healthcare and how it could be (and sometimes is) done right, using Taylor Swift songs.

Today I read about how I made decisions about my breast cancer treatment. Community is what this is all about. If you know someone who might find this episode helpful, please forward to them. Thanks!

For the full multimedia experience, I’ve linked Taylor’s featured song for this episode, peace (from folklore, 2020) to lyric video on YouTube, and on Spotify and Apple Music.

This podcast is very DIY. Right now, I’m recording it mostly for accessibility reasons, and professional podcaster I am not (yet), so thanks for your patience.

To catch up on Part One or any of my other “reading episodes” so far, they’re here. I’d love to hear from you. Please leave a comment or message me at: nicolebwriter.substack.com. Thanks for listening!

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. It’s free, and your engagement helps stories like these be seen.

If you’d like to follow in a serialized way, you can catch up here. Rather listen? Here’s the podcast audio so far. Thanks for subscribing and following along. On we go…

Subscribe now

I’ve spent more than my fair share of time inside MRI machines. The first time was a decade ago, about a year before I finally decided to have rotator cuff repair surgery, which happened in the nick of time, too, according to my shoulder surgeon. The second time was Valentine’s Day 2020, right before lockdown, when I woke up the day before and couldn’t move my feet. The ER was so packed that day that I spent 24-hours on a gurney in the hallway (along with dozens of others) before winding my way to the MRI machine, and eventually, into a hospital room. The hallway was a seriously unenjoyable, glaringly bright, noisy, sleepless slog, but I am glad for it now. The patients granted the private ER rooms likely had covid, before we knew the deadly seriousness of the virus, and well before vaccines.

My most recent time in the tube was in 2021, after my leg was smashed in a hit-and-run by someone illegally driving an e-scooter the sidewalk. Of my three MRI experiences, physically, this one was the most painful. By the third one, though, if it was not quite the charm, then I was definitely becoming a pro at it.

If you’ve never had one, MRI’s are tight and enclosed (picture sliding inside the Artemis II rocket, but in a space that’s barely the circumference of your body). Your head is basically touching the ceiling of the machine, your arms and legs tucked close. The machine itself is extremely loud and jarring, making a series of oppressive beeps and percussive hammering noises with long stretches of silence in between, but not in a particular sequence, or with any predictability. Through all of this, you have to lay perfectly still for (depending on the length of the scan) anywhere between 30-90 minutes, not moving a muscle the entire time—I mean it, not even one twitch—or you have to restart the entire process from the beginning.

For someone like me who’s had a neuromuscular disability her whole life, lying perfectly still is challenging on a good day. When you add unexpected noises, staying still is nearly impossible. Ask any of my friends in community: The CP Startle is a thing, and very hard to control. Even calling out my name—even gently, lovingly—especially when I don’t see you coming first, can make me jump sometimes. My first MRI took almost two hours, with all the startles and stops and restarts. By my third time in the tube, though, I’d learned to make a song out of the beeps and hammers, turn my time inside into a kind of meditation, a poem. I was also on an F-ton of morphine for pain during that third one. Which helped, too.

After my breast cancer tumor was removed, there was a two month waiting period where I had to make decisions about the course of my treatment. The first month was about recovering from surgery, making sure the surgical scars on my breast and armpit healed without infection, and waiting for my lymph node biopsy results. During surgery, I’d been injected with blue dye so that my surgeon could see if my cancer had invaded my lymphatic system, and if so, to what degree. She ended up removing four nodes that looked cancerous. My second month of waiting was about discussing my results, making quick, hard decisions, and scheduling the next phases of my cancer treatment.

I’d known before the tumor was removed that I’d need radiation therapies—to clean up after me, my surgeon had said—it was just a question of how much radiation and for how long. What was unclear before surgery, though, was whether or not I’d need chemo. If yes, this was the decision I dreaded most.

As I mentioned in the introduction to this chapter, Taylor Swift’s folklore was the album that convinced me to give her music a second chance, and helped me appreciate her music as more than just (overly) catchy pop anthems. It was her song peace in particular from this record, however, where my head first shot up. Where I stopped everything I was doing and listened, start to finish. Why? Because the opening notes of this song sounded to me EXACTLY like a (gentle but) very insistent—relentless even—MRI machine.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep…This loops through the entire track, never stopping. They’re the final sounds you hear, too, well after the lyrics to peace have ended. The first time I heard peace, I was instantaneously transported back to that MRI machine: I was making up songs again, creating poems, trying my best to stay still, remain calm.

After the first eight beeps, the tone of the song changes. The beeps are still there in the background, just loud enough to be unsettling. But there’s a warm, quiet electric guitar riff now too (probably thanks to Aaron Dessner, again), and accompanying lyrics that were—that are—about me.

Throughout my life, I’ve thought of it as many things: Fortunate, hard, lucky, challenging, weird, chaotic, unlikely, stressful, unique, joyful, successful, unfair, brazen, sometimes, even absurd—yes to all of these—but peaceful? Absolutely never. I’ve had moments of peace in my life, but only fleetingly. In fact, Taylor’s central question in this song: Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? is one that I’ve thought about for my entire life, from my first crush in grade school through to—I’m gonna be honest, here—about six months ago; and I’m 53 now.

The reasons why have differed: Permanent disability is difficult to deal with…I AM difficult to deal with…I’m constantly detouring…shit is always happening to me. But, up until recently, my end worry has been the same as the one in this song: Am I enough? Because, as Taylor sings: The rain is always gonna come, if you’re standing with me.

I still believe this. If you hang with me, there’s gonna be rain. Probably more rain than falls on most people. But, I also (finally) believe that there’s a lot of good stuff that comes along with me, too. I’ll do my best to explain what changed in me as we go along. But the trigger, I think, started with my decision on whether or not to move forward with chemo.

First, let me say this: The decision I made about chemo is not a recommendation, nor an endorsement, or even a cautionary tale. If you are contemplating the pros and cons of chemotherapy for yourself, please do so in consultation with health experts (real, live people who know your health history by the way, not just your AI bot of choice). But, for what it’s worth, here’s how I made my decision:

Want to listen to or watch this song? Above is the free lyric video of peace (from folklore, 2020).

My cancer surgeon was confident that she’d completely removed my giant, peach-sized tumor from my breast, and all of the cancerous lymph nodes from my armpit, too, at least according to the blue-dye test. She was also very clear with me that micro-cancer cells invisible to the eye (and modern equipment) might’ve been left behind, or may have gone even deeper into my lymphatic system. This is why I knew that I’d need radiation. Four weeks after my surgery, though, when my oncologist came in to my exam room holding a What You Should Know About Chemotherapy guidebook, I was crestfallen. I’d been prepared for radiation—I knew this would be hard enough for me—but I hadn’t been prepared for chemo. Statistically, you may be fine without it, my oncologist had said, But chemotherapy is my recommendation for you.

I went home and immediately started talking with breast cancer survivors who’d been through it. And here, I want especially to thank five phenomenal women: Mary Lou, who reminded me not to allow the health care industry make ableist assumptions about what treatments I may or may not be able to tolerate just because I have physical disabilities; June, a fellow survivor also with CP who’d been through breast cancer—twice—and was extremely candid with me about what it was like for her both times; Julie, my long-time friend who’d had the exact same type and staging of breast cancer as me and shared everything about her experience; Jennifer, who gave me the most helpful self-created First-Hand Experience Fact Sheet I’ve ever received, and my mom, who at ten years cancer-free, shared what she’d been through and told me she’d support whatever decision I made about chemo.

Systemic ableism or no, I was concerned about the effects that chemo would have on me: my energy levels, my ability to (ever) return to full-time work, additional muscular atrophy likely to occur from (yet more) physical trauma to my body; the one-two punch of my reoccurring lower extremity cellulitis when combined with the side effects of chemo. This, it turns out, was the factor that swayed my decision.

With chemo, sometimes your fingernails and toenails can come loose or fall off; this happened with several of the Fab Five women above. When I mentioned that infections that I get through my toes often trigger my cellulitis, and the only way I’ve ever been able to effectively treat a cellulitis-based infection is through a week-long hospital stay and IV antibiotics, my oncologist paused, too.

Along with the bad, chemo temporarily kills the good stuff in your body, too. Your immune system is compromised post-chemo, meaning after each session, I’d be even more prone to infection—and, therefore, potential post-chemo hospitalization after every treatment—than ususal. My oncologist looked at my legs, asked about my severe edema. She talked to colleagues, went to a conference and talked with other oncologists. She ran my genetic scan again, re-modeled probabilities of reoccurrence, with and without chemo. In the end, we agreed together that, at that time, when it came to chemo and me, the risks likely outweighed the potential benefits.

My oncologist spent hours with me, and on the science of my specific cancer, and on my care. My friends, colleagues and family did, too. This is how I made the decisions about the course of my breast cancer treatment: with others.

As usual, no point in this process was even remotely peaceful. But on Valentine’s Day 2025, five years to the day after my second of three MRI’s, I was back in a different kind of tube, getting my body mapped for radiation treatments. My treatments were far from over. I’ll share more next time.

(Community is how I got through this, and the reason I’m writing what I am right now. If you know someone who might find this post (or episode, if you’re listening) helpful, please forward it to them. Please feel free to leave a comment, or message me, too. I’d love to know what you think.)

Next up: Style (from 1989, Taylor’s Version)

If you’re enjoying invisible string, please like, subscribe, and share with others. It’s free, and your engagement helps stories like these be seen.

Subscribe now