Last week–on Monday–I saw Jessica. She told me to enjoy this time. And I am.
What I no longer have: pustular acne, split fingertips, blisters on my retinas. Unrelenting fatigue. Alopecia. Intermittent nausea.
What I do have: hair. Eyebrows, eyelashes, and freakishly straight, platinum blonde locks. I will take them.
I am in the in between. Lorlatinib shall not serve as more than an intermittent treatment. At this point, it feels like an old friend. Imperfect, but reassuringly familiar.
Before too very long, I shall need to go down some other path. But, in the meantime, I am feeling hella like myself.
This weekend Kumo and I headed north, to my friend Annie’s home. We had a frickin blast. Cooking, traipsing, drinking, getting high. Looking at the stars. Talking about art. And life. Toasting Easter with champagne drunk from the headless carcass of a chocolate bunny. Living. Large. And light.
Before too long I shall be returning to business. The business of staying alive. But in the meantime, I am–with all due respect–simply alive.