After a while of back and forth she suggested that we bring out the floor fan and situate it on one side of the bed. She would sleep on that side and get the vast majority of the breeze coming from the fan. I might catch a faint breeze but probably not too bad. It would mean switching the side of the bed that we were used to sleeping on. That wasn’t our perfect scenario. It meant that she wouldn’t get her preference of the ceiling fan and I wouldn’t get my preference of no fan at all, plus we’d have to get used to sleeping on opposite sides of the bed than we wanted to.

But in the end she would end up getting a pretty good amount of fan and I would get a pretty good amount of no fan. It’s taken a bit of an adjustment period, but we’re both sleeping better than we have in a while.

Sometimes I wish our nation’s politics worked a little more like that.

Under normal circumstances, I would have been happy to say hello to all of these people. We’d always gotten along, and had plenty of pleasant interactions.

However, it had been a particularly stressful day (week, month) and I wasn’t feeling it. I knew that if they saw me (and saw me seeing them) they would want to hear about my life and, “what I was up to.” And deep down in my gut I felt exhausted just at the prospect of saying, “Hello.”

When I first walked in I was looking pretty disheveled and none of them had yet seen me. So I kept my head down and walked up to the counter to order my coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

The pivotal moment came right after I put the order in, because then I had to wait at the counter while the coffee and food was being made - mere feet away from the potential interaction(s).

It was then that I noticed the bathroom door.

For a second I thought to myself, “But you don’t need to go to the bathroom. And would it really be so bad to say hi?”

And then another part of me (the part in my gut that felt exhausted at the prospect of saying, “Hello”) thought, “Who gives a shit? Go. Now.”

And so off I went. I made a beeline straight for the bathroom door, opened it, and walked in.

The second I closed the door behind me I remember thinking, “This is a thing that people do. They hide in the bathroom.”

I’d always associated hiding in bathrooms as something people did at parties or events due to social anxiety. And maybe that is a thing that people do that. And that’s totally valid! But after this experience I’m convinced this is not the only reason to do it.

Because I didn’t feel particularly anxious that morning. I wasn’t nervous to talk to any of the people in the coffee shop. I was just tired and didn’t want to. And rather than do any one of the following:

1. Pretend like I didn’t see them while we’re standing 4 feet away from each other

2. Say hi and then cut the conversation short after a minute but then have to wait there awkwardly for my coffee and breakfast sandwich.

3. Talk to them for an extended period of time

I opted for the direct and available respite of the bathroom.

And I have to say, my time in there was really wonderful. I stood still for a minute or two in silence, noticing whatever it was in there that there was to notice. I peed because my mind told my body, “We’re in here, we might as well.” I stood a couple more minutes. It was very quiet. It was lovely.

Then I remembered that other people might want or need to use the bathroom, so I decided it was time to reemerge. Hopefully my coffee and breakfast sandwich would be ready, I could do a a speedy pickup and head on out of there.

The first thing I noticed when I got out was that the two people who had been closest to me that I didn’t feel like talking to were walking out the door. Laughing about something or other, finishing up what was surely a nice visit. It felt like they were celebrating the glory of my bathroom escape. It felt like we were all on the same team.

The second thing I noticed was that my coffee and breakfast sandwich were ready.

And the third thing I noticed was that the third person I was trying to avoid talking to was nowhere to be seen.

It was unbelievable. And I am under no illusion that a bathroom escape works out this well every time. Maybe almost never. Maybe I got really lucky on my first go.

Whatever the case, I don’t think I will make it a habit. But I find it comforting to know that it’s out there as an option when I need it. When I’ve had a bear of a day, week, month, and I see people I don’t really want to talk to or I’m in a situation that I just need a little break from - there’s usually a bathroom nearby. I couldn’t recommend it highly enough. Whether you have to go or not, use the bathroom.

At that point my body had gotten used to a certain routine - an onslaught of chemotherapy followed by medicine and steroids to make sure those chemicals didn’t kill me. Due to the steroids, that meant I would often have very erratic sleep schedules - often waking up much earlier than I was used to.

And so for this two week period I would wake up every morning between 5-5:30am, which for me is early. For whatever reason the steroids also made it so that, no matter how bad my sleep was the night before, I would wake up feeling fresh and ready for the day.

I’d make myself the same breakfast for every one of those fourteen days, which remains essentially the same breakfast I eat to this day: scrambled eggs with onions, peppers, spinach, and cheese with a couple of slices of toast.

I would sit and eat by myself and let my mind wander. And then I would, for the first time in a very long time, write.

I remember these mornings vividly. They were so quiet, so peaceful. Yet, the backdrop was so, “traumatic,” “scary,” whatever you want to call it. At least on paper. These were the two weeks leading up to probably the most consequential news I would receive in my life up to that point. I was going to find out about whether or not I would stay living or perhaps be on a fast-track to dying.

But I didn’t feel afraid, I didn’t feel particularly traumatized (that would come later). I think that the spectre of the news I was getting ready to receive wiped away the concerns and worries that would otherwise be there. I believe it was the period of time in my life that I most fully understood how little it is that I or anyone else actually has any control over.

What I do know is that my mind was clear, I felt at peace, and I found myself writing about the same three things every morning.

1. People

2. Humor

3. Climate Change

The first thing, people, was unsurprising. I thought of people all the time throughout treatment - family, friends, anyone who I thought I might never see again and would like to see or to talk to if I got news that I might not be around for much longer.

Humor also not surprising. As anyone who knows me knows, joking and creating, ‘bits,’ is a fundamental part of who I am. As one of my best and oldest friends once told me, “The minute you stop joking, that’s when I’ll get worried.”

It was the climate piece that took me by surprise. I hadn’t sat and thought about the changing climate in many years. It reminded me of a scene at the end of Richard Powers’ book The Overstory when a character comes across the word, “still,” written in the snow.

In the morning of those two weeks, I was, “still,” for the first time in years. My mind was free to go wherever it naturally was going to go. And there it was, climate.

I didn’t think much about why my mind went in that direction, at that particular time, but now I think I understand.

I’d been thinking about death a lot, understandably, during treatment. I’d been thinking about the fact that death is the ultimate unifier. No matter who you are, what you believe, where you come from, you are going to die. Just like me. That is terrifying, because the resounding truth of it and the fact that we don’t know for sure what happens when we die, is…well, scary! Everyone also knows this. We know it, but we often don’t talk about it or face it because it is….well, scary! But it’s always there, it’s always everywhere. It might be the most natural part of living: dying.

It is also profoundly humbling and has the potential to bring people together in a way that nothing else does.

Climate, I believe, is similar. The heat that gets worse by the day, the increasing intensity of hurricanes, the torrential floods, droughts, wildfires - you name it, it affects all of us (some worse than others, but all of us nonetheless). It is also so all-encompassing and so terrifying (like death) that most of the time we go about our day like it isn’t happening (also like death). But of course, it is. It’s happening all the time. Also like death.

And, once again, it is profoundly humbling and has the potential to bring people together in a way that nothing else can.

I catch myself, thinking this way, wondering if I am being too naive and idealistic. Sure, climate change could bring us together like this, but I know that it often does not. In fact it remains divisive, a political land mine. There are still some that deny it is happening at all. Again, how like death.

There is a part of me that is deeply heartbroken by this.

But there is another, I think larger, part of me that believes people will come together to face what we are facing. There is a part of me that believes that if we could all be still, individually and collectively, then the truth of what is happening would descend on our hearts and our minds and cease to terrify us but instead would motivate us.

We might all feel how close death always is to us. We might all feel the reality that the climate is changing and bringing extraordinary challenges our way. And in light of those two realities, what choice do we have but to come together and face it head on? I know that reeks of idealism, and it does. But damn it, I think it beats giving up.

At least that was all clear enough to me, when everything was still.

The program I took this trip with is called First Descents - they do outdoor adventure trips with Adult and Young Adults (AYA) affected by cancer and multiple sclerosis. I participated in the rock climbing adventure, they also do white-water rafting/kayaking and surfing trips. I went with a fellow cancer survivor and friend. I wouldn’t have done it without him. He pushed us to go, and I am so grateful that he did. I will forever be grateful to him for it.

Our days went like this: Every day we woke up, ate a big delicious breakfast, packed a lunch and our climbing gear, and went out to climb. We climbed rocks all day into mid-afternoon. Then we’d come back, rest and play games or cards, eat some snacks, and chill before dinner. Then we’d eat another big wonderful meal for dinner and visit. We had a campfire at night, where we sat in a circle and shared our stories with each other. The good, the bad, the ugly, and everything in between. Then we’d hang out for a little longer before going to bed. That was the general schedule every day. There was something about this routine, this rhythm, that I am convinced provided the foundation for the entire experience.

Rock climbing is hard! AND fun! To me it felt like a game and a physical feat and a puzzle all rolled into one. We all had each others’ backs immediately as we launched into this new challenge. There was a trust established very quickly and I believe that freed us up to be totally vulnerable and to play and have fun like none of us had had in a long time. It felt like we were a group of kids becoming fast friends.

It was an absolute joy. I mean that too, it was pure joy. In our “normal,” lives, so many of us are consumed with our treatments or the recovery from treatments. We’re dealing with PTSD from what we’ve gone through, mental health challenges as we adjust to our new normals. Physical challenges from the cancer or the treatment(s) or both. Cancer has fundamentally changed all of our lives. Not in the same ways, no two diagnoses are the same. That goes for prognoses and treatments as well. But the torpedo to our former lives? Yes, we all have that.

It can be difficult, I know it is for me, not to feel defined by that torpedo. In my mind, I know I don’t want that to be the case. I don’t want my title to be, “Cancer Survivor.” I’d prefer - Ben. And yet, as this week progressed and I found myself feeling more Ben than I had in a long time, I realized how much I have been doing that self-defining.

One of the magical paradoxes of the week was how much we all talked about our cancer(s) but how little I thought about cancer. The anxiety and the fear floated away this week with each word of support, each nod of understanding, each embrace, each laugh, each story told.

The whole thing was, to use a cliche, healing. I can’t speak for everyone in the group, but I didn’t realize how much I needed something like that until I was going through it. It felt to me like over the course of the week I was integrating, “Cancer Survivor,” with Ben in a way I hadn’t quite been able to do on my own. I think I’d come a long way, and had absolutely incredible support from my family and friends since day 1. But I think to take the next big step in discovering the new Ben (and feeling the old one come back to life), I needed my new friends this week. I needed the support staff, the climbing guides, everyone there.

When I got back home, I hopped right in the shower and very quickly found myself crying. At first I didn’t understand what I was feeling, it was just overwhelming. But soon I realized it wasn’t overwhelming in the anxious way I’d felt in the months and months after treatment ended. At that time, I didn’t understand what it was I was feeling. I didn’t have the vocabulary. This time was different, I realized very quickly what I was feeling. It was gratitude.

And at the end of the day, that is my biggest takeaway from the week. Gratitude. It was the biggest lesson from my own diagnosis and treatment. To be grateful. For every moment, every experience, every breath. But most of all, grateful for the people in my life. This week would not have been possible without the people who organized the program, the people who worked the program, the volunteers who helped support the program, the people who gave money to fund the program, the cooks who made the food to feed us, the guides who showed us how to rock climb, and the campers who brought themselves so fearlessly and joyfully to the entire experience. This feeling of gratitude is only possible because of all of these people.

Words are almost never sufficient to express the depth of the emotions we feel. I guess the best I can do in this moment is to say, with all the earnestness I can muster:

Thank You.

We get to the airport early but notice straightaway that the security line is worryingly long. I have TSA Pre-Check but he does not. So I was able to go ahead, the plan being that if he was late then I would ask them to hold the plane. I’m not sure why I thought that would work.

It didn’t work, and we missed our initial flight.

But the woman at the gate counter was generous and understanding, particularly when she learned about the nature of our trip. She worked quickly to re-book us on the next flight out, which she was able to do at a gate right next to the original.

Then she noticed that we had a connecting flight, and that our layover (where it had originally been more than enough time) now presented a very tight window in which to make our next flight.

She walked over to the woman at the new gate counter and explained the situation, asking if it would be alright if she put us near the front of the new flight to give us a better chance of making our connecting flight. This woman was a saint. Her colleague affirmed this when we boarded the plane as she said, “She is the best of all of us!”

We get to our connecting airport with a VERY tight window indeed. Originally, our arrival gate and connecting gate were going to be right next to each other. But when we landed the captain comes on and explains that our arrival gate had changed, and now we’re in a different terminal entirely from our next flight that’s boarding in minutes!

So, immediately after deboarding the plane (thankfully that didn’t take long because we were right near the front), we start booking it. It isn’t looking good, I don’t know how we thought we were going to make it, but I guess we figured we may as well try.

Somehow, someway, when we get to the gate it says, “Final Boarding Call.” We’re at least ten minutes later than when it said boarding was scheduled to end. But there it was, the gate was still open.

When we walk up to the woman taking our tickets she says, “Y’all are lucky. A flight attendant was running late and we had to delay the flight 10 minutes.” We were the very last ones on that flight.

We’re filled with jubilation and gratitude and we just want to thank anyone and everyone who can hear us that we were able to get on this flight. My friend says, “The universe moves in mysterious ways.” I agree. I mean, it just so happened that a flight attendant was late to this flight? I’ve been on many flights over the course of my life, but that’s the first time I’ve witnessed a flight attendant arriving later than a passenger.

As we’re making our way to our seats, my friend and I both have the same thought (which I know because we share it at almost exactly the same time), which is: “I wish we could find a way to thank that first woman at the gate counter.” She recognized two young men, who have gone through something harrowing. They’re trying to get somewhere where there are other people who understand what they’ve gone through in a way that no one else can.

And maybe she knew someone who had cancer and that’s why she did what she did for us. But also, maybe she didn’t. Maybe she helped us because she saw something in us that she did not exactly understand but that moved her to act with sympathy and compassion.

I don’t know, it’s a mystery. A beautiful mystery.

One of the (many) insane parts of cancer is that you can feel totally fine. You can look totally fine. But until you get that test, that scan, that biopsy, that blood work - you don’t really know that you’re fine.

I’ve described tests and scans week as Christmas x100 laced with an (un)healthy dose of abject terror. And I think that’s about right. Imagine all the wondrous anticipation for Santa to deliver your presents. Except it’s just one present, and you know that the present is one of two things. It’s either the greatest present you’ve ever gotten in your life, or Santa tells you that you’re dying.

This week marked two years since I was declared, “in remission.” For some reason two years felt like a significant threshold. That’s based entirely on a vague memory of someone along the way telling me that two years was a significant threshold. Could be totally untrue, but don’t tell that to my anxiety/anticipation/endowment of significance.

I found myself feeling all kinds of things. I was nervous, scared, confident, mournful, reflective. A lot of the same emotions I felt when I was first diagnosed and in treatment were drummed right back up to the surface. I guess that makes sense.

I even asked someone to pray for me, which I’ve never done before. Actually, what I said in a fairly awkward way was, “I have my tests and scans tomorrow. So I…uhm…I just wanted to let you know…so I guess…if you might lend me a thought.” But the person I was addressing was a pastor and they immediately said, “You will be in my prayers.” It’s interesting, that. The difference, or lack thereof, between a thought and a prayer. I just wanted this person to be thinking about me while I went through this thing, and they were glad to do so. A small but significant gesture. It made me feel a little less alone.

This week I was blessed with the fantastic news that I am still cancer-free! I received this news via a message on my phone while I was in the middle of a meeting on Zoom for work (what a sentence for the digital age that one is). Immediately I turned the camera and microphone off on my computer and began weeping. I felt an enormous release of tension, and I found myself shaking with laughter as well as tears. I hadn’t been aware of how much I was holding onto. I hadn’t been aware of how scared I was to open that present and get the one where Santa tells me I’m dying.

When I rejoined the call I tried (for about half a second) to launch back into whatever it was we were talking about. But I just started crying again and couldn’t help telling everyone on the call about the news. It was shameless and totally shifted the focus to me - but I didn’t care. I believe at one point I said, while snotting and crying and laughing all over the place, “I’m so sorry you guys, I’m just so happy.”

So I was already feeling a great deal of empathy for my friend during this conversation, and then I started to notice that they kept saying certain things that I think many of us say when we’re sharing our struggles with someone else. Things like, “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all this.” “Sorry for being such a downer.” “I know other people have it a lot worse off than I do.” “I really shouldn’t complain.”

I heard a lot of myself in these words. I told my friend that they were in good company, and that they should feel free to let it rip. I told them that what they were dealing with sounded hard.

I also got a little angry. Not at my friend, but at this notion that we should never complain about anything. That complaining means you’re a downer. That we really shouldn’t complain. I think it’s nonsense.

Sure, if you complain constantly then that’s annoying and you’re doing yourself a disservice ultimately. If you complain about other people all the time - then you’re probably the problem.

But damn, life can be insanely hard sometimes. If you are suffering, grinding days out, just trying to make it through. If you are struggling to find perspective. I say let it rip! Complain away! Bring it on! Lament! Howl at the moon!

I’ve never met a single person in my life who’s going through something hard who doesn’t want to complain about it. Yet almost always we say the same things that my friend said. We diminish our own suffering. We basically say, “I shouldn’t be feeling this.” Nonsense!

I have found in my life that when I accept my complaint, really I’m just accepting my fallibility. I’m accepting my humanity. “I am having a hard time!” “This sucks royally!” And when I am able to do that, it is much easier to let go of the stress and the turmoil and the suffering. It is much easier to get to perspective and a sense of humor about whatever it is that’s going on.

I guess what it feels like is, the more you self-judge your complaint, the more likely it is to perpetuate. I don’t know if that’s true, I’m not a psychoanalyst. But it feels like it’s true!

___

Since my chemotherapy treatment ended, I’ve often told the story of a conversation I had with my Uncle John that I think hammers home this whole idea.

I was a few weeks into treatment and had started to talk to more family and friends about what was going on. Many of those conversations boiled down to, “You got this! Yeah, I got this!” “You’ve got the right attitude to face this challenge! Yeah, I do!” Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated every single one of these conversations. But after a while it got to the point where I would start thinking, but not saying, “Also, this is crazy hard and I don’t even really know how to process what’s happening and I’m worried I might die and I’m scared and this is totally overwhelming.”

Then one day my Uncle John gives me a call, and we’re a few minutes into the conversation and I feel like on my end I’m almost reading off a script. “Yeah I’m just taking it one day at a time, trying to get all my meals in, stay hydrated, go for my three walks, just maintain my strength, you know just stay focused on what’s right in front of me, be patient and give myself a lot of grace.”

Uncle John generously affirmed what I was saying, “Totally, totally…”and then pauses and says:

“Man, it just fucking sucks man!”

And the moment he said this to me I felt a massive wave of relief and a deep gratitude to him. What I got from his statement was not, “You’re actually not dealing with it that well and you’re just repressing the struggle and stress you’re feeling.” What I got from it was what I really and truly felt at that time and have felt many times since, which was, “I am dealing with it in a way I’m proud of and want to continue doing and is helping me get through this thing AND it really fucking sucks!!!”

Both things were true. Both things are so often true.

Is that complaint? Yes, I think it is! So what? Isn’t it just an acknowledgement that sometimes life is really hard and we’re all humans and we struggle through it as best we can and even when we do a, “good,” job of it it’s still really hard? I think to complain in this way is to accept this fact.

___

I was thinking of that conversation with my Uncle John as I was talking to my friend. I was thinking about the idea that sometimes all we need to really and truly let out a complaint is permission from someone else. Uncle John gave me that permission, and I think I gave my friend that permission as well. The nature of both conversations changed as soon as those moments happened. They felt a little more honest. And they didn’t dwell in the complaint. They did not perpetuate. They did the opposite. I wonder if it’s because as soon as we let it out, really let it out, then we’re able to let it go.

10. I think there needs to be a moment in hospital melodramas, after the miraculous save from a life-threatening situation, when the patient and their families receive the medical bill.

More than anything, listening back to this little project has given me further appreciation for the act of creativity, however incomplete.

Here’s Elon Musk reading a selection from Kurt Vonnegut’s Player Piano.

He grows a big garden, raises livestock, and ingratiates himself into the surrounding community. Each episode focuses on him harvesting, foraging, fishing, or raising some kind of plant or animal - often both. Then he cooks something with what he’s gathered that looks absolutely delicious and almost always shares the dish with a few, or many, of his neighbors. Sometimes he offers the meals as a sort of barter in exchange for something he needs around the cottage like hay or feed for his pigs. More often, it is as an expression of gratitude for something his neighbor has helped him with to procure whatever it is he is cooking with. For example, someone helped him find some fish in the river, he cooks that fish with herbs from his garden and serves it to them later that day.

There is so much that I like about this show. The simplicity and earnestness of it, the way that a more country/agrarian life is presented as a means not just of self-suffiency but also of deep community. The sight and sound of people gathering around a table, which happens every episode, and breaking bread that they helped gather the ingredients to bake (metaphorically) feels incredibly refreshing to me.

Now, it’s obviously made to feel idyllic. That is a big part of the appeal. The obstacles that Hugh faces are always relatively minor and easily overcome. We don’t see him angry or sad or upset with another person or other people being upset with him - and we all know this is a fundamental part of life. In that sense the show is unmistakably a form of escapism. I mean, it’s right there in the title.

But I think there is something deeper at work here beyond pure escapism. As we watch Hugh live his life at River Cottage, we are watching someone grow his own food, cook it, and share it with other people. We are watching people all pitch in to make something greater than the sum of its parts. To gather the ingredients to make the dishes Hugh has to rely on the local knowledge and expertise of other people. He leans on them and returns the favor with delicious meals not so much out of obligation as out of gratitude.

When he raises and slaughters animals, the process is treated with a reverence and respect. It is not done lightly. And the entire animal is used, nothing is put to waste. Once again, it is shared with the community.

In fact, I’d say that reverence and respect is a through line of the whole show. For the animals, for the land, and for the people that Hugh shares this place with.

I think it would be easy to dismiss this show as an antiquated fantasy of rural life, one that most people cannot participate in. And there’s a truth to that. Most of us can’t throw garden tools in our car and move to the country to live a charming life of happy foraging and delicious gourmet meals. If my only reaction to this show was, “Oh how lovely, wouldn’t it be wonderful to live a life like that,” then I think I’d probably dismiss it in the same way. It would be pure escapism.

But since watching it, I’ve noticed some real changes in my relationship to food and meals: paying more attention to the produce we buy, making a lot more of what we eat at home, even getting a few small herbs to grow (basil, rosemary). I’ve also rediscovered an appreciation for my family’s emphasis on both in my childhood and throughout my life.

Modern life seems hell-bent on making all of this extremely difficult for most people to do. And it is extremely difficult for most people to do, well done modern life! But it shouldn’t be, and I think we can all do more to fight for more people’s ability to have these kinds of relationships with food, meals, and their neighbors.

I don’t know for sure if these small changes with continue for me. Maybe it’s an exciting phase that will dwindle over time and be replaced by the berserk manic energy of cell phone pings and webpage scrolling.

What I do know is that the joy of watching Escape to River Cottage is the joy of learning something and applying that learning. I am acting differently in the world because of it. That, to me, is a rare thing. How often does a piece of art or entertainment actually accomplish that? I’d say pretty rarely. But this humble, kind of corny, very earnest TV show from Britain in the late 90’s has done just that. What an absolute joy.

I’ve got this really funny joke about Viagra and Aleve, I just heard it the other day, but I don’t really remember the punch line. I won’t tell it. Anyway, my son and what he’s up to-

Money money money money money.

It’s an evolution for these women, pretty soon it’ll be a revolution and I want to make sure I’m on the right side of that! That’s a big part of the reason I’m sponsoring this ‘women in resources’ organization.

She’s insane. She’s absolutely crazy.

Our son, who keeps failing, you know he’s up and down. He played in the band at the Final Four which I guess - oh, yeah I guess that is pretty cool that he did that. Yeah I guess he did do that. Good point.

She was just one of those girls in the office.

Work work work work work.

I had to wake up at 6:30am this morning - What the hell is wrong with you? Stop complaining and do it. Stay up late and wake up early. That’s the way to do it.

Bob and Zonar tormented everyone all the time. They are terrors those two, they never stop.

I think she wants to kill me you know. I’m pretty sure she would do it. You think I want to kill you? I’m pretty sure you want to kill me! And between the two of us, be honest, which one of us would really do it?

He’s the anchor spouse. He’s a dead weight and he’s never been anything other than that to me. I’d never tell him that, but he knows it.

Probably they’ll get divorced. I mean, if I were them I would get divorced.

You know what our kids say? Mommy is good at making money, Daddy is good at making us laugh.

Clenched, folding in on itself

And all I want is to return to normal.

I want to be myself again.

I want to go back to the foods I like to eat,

I want to talk and laugh with my friends,

I want to run around and play,

I want to be physical and alive and

Feel like a human being again.

I’m not right now though, I’m crumpled up on the floor

Like a discarded rough draft,

Capitulating and desperately trying to

Find a way out of the pain,

I stretch, I bend, I clench, I cry, I shake, I burn.

It’s all futile and there is only the pain.

I begin to think about people I love,

When there is only pain in the body there is some solace found in the mind,

It does not distract from the pain,

Nor ease it,

Nevertheless my mind is still able to think of those I love

And that’s something.

Something to hold on to perhaps

As I grit my teeth and bear it once more.

My thoughts shift to all those things I want to return to but am unable.

Small, simple things they are.

Not big, not grandiose, not ambitious, not full of glory and notoriety;

Those are things I think of when I’m healthy,

When my stomach is not burning.

My mind guides me back to laughter, even as the burning swells,

It takes me to embraces, to cherished memories, to long walks,

And to people I haven’t thought of in some time, but who will forever be dear to me.

The burning reaches a crescendo,

I have my head in my hands, hunched over,

Pleading for it to stop.

I think of all the paltry grudges I’ve held,

How difficult it is to forgive

But how natural it feels to do so in this moment.

I think of friendships I’ve lost and wonder why it had to be that way.

What transpired, what changed in each of us to make it so?

If I saw them now I should hold their hands, look into their eyes,

And smile with gratitude for all we learned and shared together.

I think of the pain I may have caused,

I am saddened by this and disappointed with myself

For my carelessness, laziness, lapses of decency.

We all know it’s far easier to inflict pain than to receive it,

As my stomach continues to burn I am battered down and

Humbled by this truth.

The pain reaches its zenith, I think of my family, and weep.

I feel a delicate brush against my hand, look down, and

See a small animal companion rubbing her face against me, purring softly,

Looking up at me with deep green eyes full of innocence.

There is only an instinct to comfort and be comforted.

I do not know if she could sense my pain

Or if she simply approached as she normally would,

But it doesn’t matter one bit and

I am enormously grateful not to be alone

With the burning.

As the pain begins to subside

I fight the urge to rise too quickly,

I am spent

But eager to get back to those small simple things

That I am already beginning to take for granted again.

I pause, and consider this, and try to take it slower,

And wonder if it might be better to take it slower every day from here on out,

It might be easier to appreciate the small simple things,

Even when my stomach isn’t burning.

But the burning has subsided,

And the relief that accompanies that reality shortens my pause

And propels me up, and

I recklessly throw myself into the remainder of the day,

Thinking it would be foolish to forget this.

Well come on in to the fun fun fun zone!

Distraction tonight!

The abyss of ridiculousness!

The dreamscape of hilarity!

The ultimate escape!

Hope you get your money’s worth,

But I for one, have my doubts.

Chances are 50/50,

Flip a coin,

Two coins

Two pence please and thank you

Thank you for paying!

How convenient.

It’s that easy.

Look away, look away -

A Series of Unfortuante Events

Indeed.

It’s your fault!

No it’s your fault!

It’s our fault!

In and out and home before dark.

Faith and reason can both agree,

We’re fucking it up royally!

A common ground

Look at that.

Hilarious it is!

Make em laugh, make em laugh!

MAKE ME LAUGH!

Here I am now,

Entertain me.

Why so serious?

What’s so funny?

(un)Reality bites

And now we’re rabid

For attention.

Over here over here!

I’m being social god-damnit

Give me a break!

We’re all full of shit

I’m just using the laxative

While you remain constipated,

So what if I forget the dosage?

I’m the realest

I’ve ever been

I’m speaking my mind

My truth

My facts

What facts?

Five articles remaining

Well I’ll just jump over here

Over here

Over here

Over here

I’ve read a hundred articles and haven’t given a dime!

I’ve got shit pouring from every pore

On my body!

Where’s the best place to get a sandwich -

That’s where my money’s going!

That’s where my mind’s going!

Oh I’m being emotional?

No, YOU’RE BEING EMOTIONAL!

I’m a man -

Upright

Sturdy

Sound

Firm

Hard

Stiff

Strong

DON’T LOOK AT ME

I USE IT ALL THE TIME

SHUT UP YOU DON’T KNOW!

I’m gonna live forever,

No one will remember your name,

Try harder

Be better,

Strive

Work

Work

Work

Make more

More more more more more more

There’s your answer,

I’M WELL,

YOU’RE

WELCOME.