• Diaries,  writing

    Update on writing Insomniac Cafe

    I’m tearing through my Friends rewatch now. I’m trying to make sure I finish it about the same time that I finish the rough draft of my book, Insomniac Cafe, which is a surreal horror Friends redux. Ergo my relentless Friendsposting on social media lately.

    I’m working on season five out of ten. Phoebe’s surrogacy for Frank+Alice is still weird (mostly because Frank+Alice are gross). Remember Frank+Alice? She was his high school teacher? They married when he was 18 and she was 44? I knew people this happened with IRL and I didn’t really grok how repulsive it is at the time. I’m currently 36, and the very idea of hooking up with an 18-year-old, much less someone I have power over like a student, makes me wanna peel my skin off.

    I forgot Chandler and Monica got together so early on the show. Although I always kinda think Chandler is a homo so deeply in denial he doesn’t even know it, I still love his relationship with Monica. They’re so freaking cute together. They manage to remain real friends while also being super enthusiastic about each other.

    It’s stark contrast to the relentless drama of Ross and Rachel, who I will never stop hating as a couple. Ross just doesn’t have redeeming qualities! (Note I must make on every single post: I adore David Schwimmer’s performance. Just wanna say, all the crap I talk about Ross doesn’t apply to the actor. The actor is hysterical. Ross is probably so loathsome because David’s so good at it.) And when the two of them are together, they are mi se ra ble. When they’re not together, they’re fighting and horrid. He’s so petty. Jealousy is one of my least favorite traits, and he’s *obsessively* jealous.

    I find it difficult to believe Ross and Rachel could ever be friends, much less long-term romance partners. She would just be constantly henpecked by the dude. I will not be doing nice things to Ross in my book.

    Speaking of names (were we speaking of names?), I decided not to play with the copyright protections of “parody” for Insomniac Cafe. So none of the characters are gonna be named Ross/Rachel/etc — they’re getting names based on the actors’ other comedy roles, mostly. Rachel will be named Joanna, after Aniston in Office Space. Monica is Gale, a la the horror-comedy Scream character. This is similar to Final Girls Support Group, which named actual horror movie characters after their actors (iirc).

    But I totally recast Ross because I love David Schwimmer and I’m gonna do bad, bad things to Ross. I call him Adam instead. As in…like…I mentally cast Adam Driver to play Evil Ross. lmao. Can you see it? I think this is the funniest thing in the world. The book is a little funny — black comedy, maybe — but calling Ross “Adam” because everyone is played by the Friends except Ross, who is Adam Driver, kills me every time I think about it.

    I’m still waffling about whether I actually kill off Ross and hook up Rachel with Joey, though. I love the pairing, but it’s pretty unpopular, and I don’t want people to be distracted from the ending by something like that? I’d prefer to keep the focus on the book’s themes. And all the really gross stuff in it.

  • Diaries

    Warm nights and long naps

    I went for a couple short walks tonight. It’s the time of year where there’s still light at eight o’clock, and you can wander through twilight at a balmy seventy-something degrees Fahrenheit. You only need a sweater if you want to keep the bugs off your arms. Nevada does sunsets like any desert state — think spectacular oranges and pinks striped against cozy midnight-blue — but we’re in a place that’s a touch more meadowlike than, say, much of Arizona.

    One of my favorite things about warm days is how you get glimpses of others’ lives. People out teaching their wee ones how to golf on the playground, folks using the park for batting practice, rugs thrown over fences to dry off, garage doors open to rearrange things, kids wandering with friends as they delay heading home.

    The birds sing pretty late at this time of year. There’s something roosting in my plum trees, low enough that I kept startling it walking underneath. I bet I won’t see many plums this year. The birds will eat them all, I’m sure. I’m all right with that.


    I can’t resist napping a lot. I don’t know what it is. I’ve been sober-sober from weed for months now — I quit at the end of January, and we’re well into May — yet it’s possible my body & brain are still healing from years of endocannabinoid fuckery, I suppose. It’s not like I’m doing a lot of physical activity. I stand a lot and walk a bit, but I’m not lifting the way I used to. I don’t leave home to go to work. Some days it feels like most of my activity is getting up to eat and standing sleepily at my standing desk for a while before going back to lie down again.

    Yesterday I managed to stay awake all day. I slept great the night thereafter. Then I napped for three freaking hours today! What’s up with that? I’ve had my thyroid and blood sugar tested and these things seem fine. Can I really still be recovering something like 110 days into sobriety? Maybe, maybe.

    Still, I am getting writing done, a thousand words at a time. I’m not zipping along very fast but working on Insomniac Cafe is weird because it’s a weird book. Trying to figure out the dismount on a surreal horror novel is tough. It needs to feel right, and say what I intend, and it needs to be deeply unsettling.

    While I don’t do a lot of active writing, I’m also working on my charcoal illustration, “make it make sense.” I’m kinda in the place where it looks ugly. All of my bigger pieces go through a long ugly stage (or two) where it’s blah and not very visually readable, and pushing through that is a pain. It’s hard to imagine I’ll ever get somewhere I like. I usually do. But I don’t know how.

    I wish I’d chosen a composition with more face in it. I really love doing human skin in charcoal. I didn’t want to do a face-focused portrait because I used to do them too much, but…I just really like doing skin!


    The quality time I’m getting with my kids right now is such a dream. My thirteen-year-old is more personlike than ever, but they’re also going through an especially indulgent stage where they just wanna do stuff with us. They don’t really care what. That means they’re watching more TV and movies with me than ever. All I ever wanna do is inflict my media on them. Show them the things that shaped me. Listen to their snark about Friends. That kind of thing.

    My nine-year-old is still a little bit of a baby, in his way. He’s also getting quite grown — don’t get me wrong. But reading “Understanding Comics” by Scott McCloud together has shown me specifically where he’s yet to neurocognitively develop abstract thinking. And that makes him feel like he’s still a wee bit of a sweet baby. He’s so sharp, though. He gets a lot more than he doesn’t. He demonstrates his understanding of many concepts (like the different ways you can arrange panels to modify the readers’ perception of time) by pointing them out in later chapters, or in the kid-oriented comics he’s reading.

    Thanks to my 9yo, I’ve also been reading more Dav Pilkey. The newest Dog Man book, “The Scarlet Shedder,” was an unexpectedly emotional and political read. It’s Dav Pilkey’s manifesto against AI, done in a clever and entertaining way for kids. It also tackles resilience through the hard parts of life. Considering the naive style, the extremely silly aesthetics, and general FUN of his books, I wasn’t expecting this one to slap me in the face. My 9yo got really emotional about reading it, too. Dav Pilkey is his favorite author. He has good taste!


    My mental health is in the trash can. I feel great when I’m doing specific stuff (being with my kids, focusing hard on something), but the zero spaces in between are filled with anxious chaotic noise. I wish I felt better.

  • Diaries,  sara reads the feed

    Grooming the yard, some cool biology news, and medicine stuff

    This weekend has been the high-intensity solar storm, and so far, we haven’t had any of the society-ending infrastructure damage I heard might be possible. (Knock on wood.) Although I didn’t get to see much aurora last night — only the faintest hints of hue change in the sky — I got to have some lovely walking time with my family when it was gorgeous and warm. Plus, I got to look at the sun spot through Little Sunshine’s eclipse glasses. That one dark spot is apparently fifteen times the size of Earth, so that was cool.

    Seeing all the aurora photos on social media is just lovely. It’s nice how far the auroras borealis and australis made it — a unifying experience shared by so many that is a *pretty* thing. Something humbling that reminds us of our solar scale. I wish we united over loveliness more often. I know there must be more opportunities than we notice.

    Generally today was a really nice day. Even if my mental health is in the pits. Every idle moment, I’m engulfed by existential terror — probably a sign I need to supplement iron again. I’m having digestive issues and my absorption is probably also in the pits. Existential terror is a common symptom of anemia, for me.

    Anyway, I stayed active by working in the yard. It’s a lot easier and more pleasant now that I’m less afraid of bugs. Indoor gardening really gifted me with an interest in entomology. Now when I’m pulling little beetles out of my hair and having spiders run over my foot, I’m zen. My yard is extremely biodiverse, heh. It’s a good thing! But we have to clean up a bit. While I was performing the act of weeding, trimming, and raking, I felt great. How could I not feel great in the shade of these enormous mature trees I’ve shared the last decade with?

    I’m sure I’ll be sore tomorrow.

    I also helped cut hair on three members of the family today, myself included. Husband looks great. Kiddo didn’t want to hold still for a proper cut, so it’s messy, but he’s adorable anyway. I also trimmed myself and fixed my bangs a bit. I think it’s a significant improvement, even though I maybe went a little too choppy. I feel good about that.

    Somehow I also got almost a thousand words of writing done. I’m not sure I’m done for the night (two hours until midnight, not sleepy yet), but I’d be good with what I achieved. What I’m writing is as disgusting as my real life is warm and lovely. I’ve always been kinda like that! Ever since my spouse and I forged a life together, we’ve managed to have an extremely lovely time, while my tastes have continued running demented and dark. This is the most demented thing I’ve ever written, though.

    I’m feeling motivated to finish it even if I’m not working super fast, so that’s excellent too.


    One of the many formerly scary insects I’ve come to appreciate is wasps. They’re just part of the whole cycle, you know? I try to stay out of their way.

    It turns out some wasps are even mysterious, fascinating creatures. Microplitis demolitor cultivates viruses inside its body. (Ars Technica)

    According to the article, these parasitic wasps actually domesticated a novel virus to wreck the immune systems of their prey. It makes it easier to force caterpillars to carry their babies. You gotta check the details, it’s rad.

    How have wasps evolved to control their pet viruses? Most important, they’ve neutered them. The virus particles can’t reproduce because they don’t contain the genes that are crucial to building new virus particles. Those remain in the wasp genome.

    Wasps also control where and when the domesticated virus particles are produced, presumably to reduce the risk of the virus going rogue. Bracovirus particles are made only in one pocket of the female’s reproductive tract, and only for a limited time.

    And key virus genes have been lost altogether such that the domesticated viruses cannot replicate their own DNA. This loss is seen even in recently domesticated viruses, suggesting that it’s an important first step.

    A more worrying virus, bird flu, continues to present issues for the American beef supply. I found this Al Jazeera English article about it to be interesting — they’re not afraid to talk about things that a lot of American news media veers away from. For instance, Colombia, Mexico, and Canada have placed new testing restrictions on our exports, or won’t take products from states with outbreaks. Testing at American dairies is still optional. Cows get tested crossing state lines, though.

    We’re sending samples of this virus to a facility in the UK for further testing. (The Guardian)

    Elsewhere on the food chain, we’ve identified a psychedelic toad toxin with potential medicinal uses. (Smithsonian Mag) They’re hoping this will be useful for treating depression and anxiety — with the hallucinogenic effects removed. So far they’ve tested the Sonoran desert toad’s toxin on mice, with promising results, but apparently it’ll be a long time before they can make anything approved for human use.

    I’ve always understood psychedelic compounds from nature to be medicine, but it’s always nice to see research honing these uses.


    Scarier to me than psychedelic toads or wasp-domesticated viruses is the new weight loss procedure where doctors burn part of the stomach lining. (Gizmodo via Quartz) I guess the hunger hormone, ghrelin, mostly comes from the mucosal lining near the fundus (the top bit, to put it plainly). The idea is that you burn the stomach so it produces less ghrelin. I have digestive issues, as I mentioned, and I often feel like my stomach is already eating itself alive. I’d really rather not burn it further. Shudder.

    How badly do we want people to lose weight? Semaglutide products are linked to rare but severe side-effects like gastroparesis. (NBC News) That means stomach paralysis, more or less. There are also many serious risks to older weight loss surgeries, like lap band surgery occasionally letting stomach juices leak into the abdomen. (Stanford Health Care)

    Supposedly these risks are less than the risks of clinical obesity. This is probably sometimes true. But a lot of these treatments are available for less-serious cases (especially Ozempic et al), and I worry that we’re putting a cultural fear & loathing of fatness ahead of actual safety.

    Which is to say, I’m not jumping toward any weight loss procedures, though I currently qualify as Class I Obese. Vanity and fear be damned. I’m just gonna try to move my body more and eat more green stuff.

    We are making really cool medical advancements in general, though. The case of children having hearing restored via gene therapy (which is a quick procedure, apparently) is really encouraging. (The Guardian) This specific treatment is only for one specific kind of hearing impairment, of course. But it was unthinkable when I was young. The stuff of science fiction. What else are we going to be able to do in twenty years?

  • Diaries,  movies

    I think I’ve written this post before, but here I go again. Venting about nuance.

    I find it very frustrating when I write out long, nuanced stuff, and then people respond with hostility to some little snippet of it without reading the rest. Like they React and then they think that Reaction should be my problem, without actually investing any effort into anything except Being Hostile.

    It is normal to respond to things with your wounds first. I do this a lot. I have to be really careful engaging with people about some things (especially publishing). What I encounter the most is misogynists. If you’re a misogynist, you’re going to respond to any content that is vaguely feminist with your broken assumptions about women, and you’re going to explode over really anything I say without recognizing the nuance. That is normal. That doesn’t mean you should do it.

    Disagreement is cool. Misreading (or not reading at all!) and then being hostile is uncool. It’s not hard to tell the difference between people engaging in good faith and those who aren’t. If you’re not, why engage at all?

    The impulse is to stop writing long, nuanced things, except…that’s not interesting to me. So instead I tell people to fuck all the way off and block them. I am not thrilled with that response. But if they’re not making effort with me, they get my crabby low-effort side too.

    Saying Nothing is always a great option.

    There’s a rule of three I find personally helpful to consider when choosing to respond to someone:

    • Does this need to be said?
    • Does this need to be said right now?
    • Does this need to be said right now by me?

    The internet provides casual access to a lot of conversations I (or you, broadly) don’t need to be part of at any given moment. Access doesn’t mean entitlement to engage. Some people seem *terribly* offended by the idea that every last thought of theirs isn’t worthy to share, but if you feel that way, you should really interrogate it. Everyone has something important to say. But not on everything, everywhere, all at once.


    People also seem to misunderstand my critical reviews a lot. There is a lot of all-or-nothing thinking. Surely if I’m criticizing a movie’s reflection of society (for example), then I mean that I hate it, and I’m attacking it, and I’m saying it’s bad or whatever. They get defensive! You would not believe the defensive reactions I get when I criticize a movie that someone loves in particular.

    I love movies. I love Film and Cinema. I love Stories! The fact I love Cinema and Stories means I can extract enjoyment out of movies that Aren’t For Me through analysis. Analysis is not inherently meant to be an insult — I will say “full insult” or “insult intended” when I mean it that way, and sometimes I do! Analysis is just a process of dissecting a story to look at all its mechanical-emotional parts, which is great fun.

    The truth is that I very seldom hate movies. I hated The Proposal (2009) and outlined why exactly, but that’s the only example I can even recall off the top of my head. If you look at my Letterboxd account, I heavily skew toward five-star reviews. I almost always think that a movie has some value to it.

    Yet people think I’m being scathing when I point out Irish Wish (2024) was made with grossly conservative values. Did y’all miss the part where I gave it three stars? How I love Lindsay Lohan’s performance? Very little in this world is entirely one thing. I’m living in a country run by conservatives. It hasn’t escaped my notice. I still manage to enjoy myself all the time, and find valuable things to do, but I don’t do it by ignoring the gross stuff. I can point out the hostility of things and just…leave it at that.

    I’ve even been telling folks that Poor Things might be worth watching for them (and I thought the story was garbage at its basic concept). For every review I’ve seen with a disabled person revolted by it, I’ve seen others who found it relatable for very similar reasons.

    There is ample space for a spectrum of reactions to anything. These reactions are mine. Why does it hurt you? The movie’s not your bff, it’s not paying your bills, and I’m not even attacking it.

    Before responding to me with frankly absurd assertions — like thinking my reaction to Poor Things implies only men like sex, when you’re talking to *me*, of all people — you could just stop and wonder, “Does this need to be said by me right now?” And then don’t do it. If you’ve got stuff to get off your chest, go write your own blog. Or get therapy.


    I often hear how the internet isn’t a space for nuance. To that I ask, what is?

    Have you tried talking to your extended family lately? Do you get to have nuanced conversations with them?

    How about your coworkers? Your neighbors?

    Is it in the newspaper?

    What about academia? And if it is, who gets to access it?

    Is there just no room for nuance anywhere?

    Should we reduce everything to sound bites, quotes, propaganda posters, one-frame cartoons, headlines?

    Where do the nuanced conversations happen? Sincerely, where? I have limited social connections in real life. I don’t have a full perspective on this. If you’d like to point me toward something accessible for a person with my limitations where I can actually get thoughtful engagement, definitely let me know, because right now it seems like there is no room for nuance anywhere.

    The internet definitely makes this effect worse — or at least, social media does, with its algorithmic censorship and limited post length. Yet it also should make it possible for longer-format thoughts to reach one another. We have the tools. We have the technology. The choice to be reductive for the sake of SEO or what-have-you is definitely a choice.

    As I write this, I’m looking at the “excerpt” box in WordPress and chuckling to myself. I’m going to have to produce a little blurby-doo for overlaying upon a graphic, as I do with every post.

    I know I’ve written posts like this before. I think it gets whinier every time. “Why do I have to deal with reactive randos everywhere I go? Why is everything all-or-nothing? Where is the alternative?” Maybe I should just get it on a bumper sticker. But hey, if I can’t complain about this stuff on my own blog, then where do I do it eh?

  • Diaries

    even my third eye is sleepy

    Although I’m not actively practicing yoga atm, I’ve been studying it (as I am wont to do with random subjects). I like to study stuff by getting into communities and absorbing discussions.

    I just saw someone talking about how he’s done yoga and meditation a long while, and after his third eye opened*, he just didn’t care about over-performing at his job anymore. He was in a really competitive field and started getting poor evaluations because he stopped striving to meet stressful goals.

    (*A lot of people don’t like talking third eye or other spiritual/metaphysical concepts, but I argue it is only terminology, and we can call it whatever we want. I am not a literalist. The general concept here is reaching a kind of personal understanding that you feel like…everything makes sense. Self and universe in unity.)

    I opened my third eye a while ago. Now I’ve been off weed for three weeks, it has not closed (yet?). I still have this deep, profound sense of peace gained from years of psychedelic meditation. I am just not interested in artifice, external goals, or performing.

    I spent my 20s chasing goals but didn’t get satisfaction when I achieved them. Literally I did not celebrate hitting the New York Times Bestseller list. Didn’t celebrate when I hit my first million sales. Nor when I got an agent. Or any of the other milestones that seemed to matter so much when I was younger. It was everything for so long, and I spent so much time working on it, and then I realized it didn’t make me happy. I was so accomplished and i was never happy. I was just more scared.

    I am happy now. And so I am satisfied with what I accomplished Back Then, more than I used to be, but…I did that, so why would I go back to chasing goals again? I know now that isn’t where happiness rests. Happiness is something I can only give myself. It’s a matter of surrender and presence in the moment. (Theoretically I could feel this while chasing goals but I haven’t figured it out yet.)

    When I think about what matters now, it’s basically my family, of the furry persuasion and otherwise. It’s both scary to know that I can’t keep them forever (as losing my darling Annie has reminded me, yet again) but it’s also so satisfying to know I am with my family now and we are together and this moment is really good, and it doesn’t feel like anything matters beyond distributing snuggles and emotional support to mi familia. I’m just gazing at my dogs while I type this lol.

    Obviously I’m still doing stuff. I am still writing a lot and have a couple trunked books. I’m gonna finish Fated for Firelizards because I think it’s important to complete some projects. I am drawing and crocheting constantly, too. But I’m not doing any of this because I wanna accomplish anything beyond the moment of engagement with it. I’m not sure how to tell people what they will get out of interacting with my art (my purses are chaotic, my game is weird, my reviews are silly) because I am just experiencing the creation of it.

    I don’t feel unsatisfied, or like anything is missing. Art is just something I do because I am here and that is one of my most fundamental methods of self-expression and it’s rather like breathing, dreaming, thinking, or anything else I can’t stop.

    The weirdest thing about this peaceful state is the fact that I seem to no longer have any relevance in the world, and the world has minimal relevance to me, and I’m not entirely sure what to make of that. Surely this is not sustainable, just existing peacefully.

    I think the most hilarious side-effect of my shifted attitudes is that I give the vast majority of movies 5* because I just think they’re nice. lol. Did the movie establish and meet its goals? Was I amused? Five stars for you! And you! Five stars everywhere!

  • Diaries

    the scientist withdraws

    What kind of oddball drug tests herself periodically through withdrawal to see when the THC has cleared from her system? This oddball, right here. I got a pack of THC drug tests when I quit weed.

    These tests work the opposite from pregnancy/COVID tests: when you are negative for THC, you get two lines. So far I have only had the control line.

    15 days after quitting, I got the faintest line – meaning it detected very very little THC. This was using my most dilute sample (end of day, very well-hydrated) so I suspect I’d have zero line testing again tomorrow morning, but! I am getting there.

    Technically *any* line is a negative because these tests are qualitative (yes/no) not quantitative. Community apocrypha says you pee clean after a month, but I might get there sooner – pretty wild considering I was such a heavy user for almost a decade. But it also makes sense considering that I was cutting back the last couple months and mostly inhaling (versus edibles), which clears faster.

    I’m still expecting to have weed-related cognitive issues for months, even when it’s out of my system. I am told I could remain intermittently foggy for almost a year. Also, THC binds to fat, and I’ve stored a bunch in my adipose tissue. It can release if I lose weight or exercise hard.

    The process isn’t linear, is what I’m saying, but this is cool progress to experience.

    I told my spouse that I was drug testing myself and I was like “I know it’s really weird, but–” and he was like “No this is just you having a scientific mind, like always, and it’s why I love you.” I love him. It’s true though — any excuse I have to run tests on myself, I will do it.

    I haven’t been posting Sara Reads the Feed posts (or much else) mostly because this quitting process has totally thrown me off my groove. I’ve made mood-management, self-care, and adjusting to sobriety kinda my full-time job during this period, which is also how I got off nicotine and alcohol. It’s telling myself “this is the most important thing right now” and giving myself lots of space to Feel Stuff.

    Of everything I have quit, weed is by far the easiest on me. Alcohol was emotionally easy because FUCK THAT STUFF, it is POISON. Nicotine was the worst. The most brutal withdrawal, the most intense cravings. But I did that! I am free. It’s awesome.

    Still, here I am, babysitting myself again. Hopefully this will be the last substance abuse self-babysitting for the rest of my life. It’s funny how I feel Very Done With This but I am neither embarrassed nor regretful about what all I’ve done. That was just like…the road. You know? That is the road I was on. No hard feelings, cannabis, but we’re done now. Thank you for what we had together. Bye. Can’t wait to see two bold lines on the drug test.

  • Diaries,  slice of life

    Annie (2008 – 2024)

    I resent that other people have emotions. That they have weight. I resent that other people must need to take space during a time when I cannot hold the weight of my own emotions. I wish I didn’t have to be a mother when I’m very sad. I wish other people would be fine without me. I wish I could just fall into the donut hole of myself and stay there until I feel better. Once the weight becomes not so smothering.


    Sixteen years ago I got a kitten. She came from a box behind a grocery store. She was riddled with mites and ticks. We took care of her very closely, our first medically complicated mammal-friend.

    She grew up so loving that it was annoying. She couldn’t take no for an answer. I tried to give her to my sister so I wouldn’t have to keep dealing with that tortoiseshell attitude, but at the last moment, I got way too sad. I loved her much more than I recognized.

    So she stayed.


    I don’t want to remember everything because it just makes me feel sad.


    The cost of loving very, very much is hurting very, very much when something ends. And everything ends eventually. You know you’ve been lucky if it hurts a lot.

    They say that our little mammal-friends give us the best years of our life, and then the single worst day of our lives.


    This is the last of the cats my husband and I had before we got married. She was a little box baby found in a Walmart parking lot. We nurtured her through ear mites and ticks and watched her grow into the biggest personality. After I had Moonlight, thirteen years ago, little Miss Annie ate one of their baby bottle nipples and needed $3000 surgery to remove it. I spent a while calling her the other things I could have used that money for. “Little Miss Caribbean Vacation.” “Little Miss Used Car.”

    When Little Sunshine was born, Annie used to curl up in bed with both of us and lick the baby’s head. She would put him down for naps like that. When he went through the grabby baby hand stage, she loved it and would position herself so that he could squeeze her face.

    We chose not to remove a tumor that developed on her shoulder. It grew very aggressively, and she couldn’t compete with her siblings for food/water anymore, so we gave her the entire spare bedroom as an apartment. It helped her perk up a ton. She spent her last year in there getting multiple daily visits, where I would groom and tend her, and we would snuggle extensively. I loved her more in this last year than I have ever loved a cat. Something about taking care of someone who is sick becomes so intimate.

    Her tumor became so large, it really bothered her. She seemed worn out. I made a little sweater for her with a webbing inside to hold crocheted cotton bandages, that way we could cover the tumor and the kids could still visit. But she was so tired. It was time. I miss her already.


    There is no dying without regret. It’s one of the things that makes it so hard. You can’t do it perfectly. It’s like how you can make a birth plan when you’re pregnant, listing out all your preferences, but your body and baby will decide how it happens. Death never comes at the right time. It’s never pretty. It is hard and unpleasant.


    I do think we will meet again someday, somehow, in some form.

    I truly believe that.