I just stood in my kitchen, after chopping up a sweet potato that a friend gave me in one of those meal-in-a-box things, and I raised my fists to the air in triumph. I’m in my kitchen. Making a meal. Listening to Kesha. I’m alive. I win.
Thirty minutes before that, I sat at the dining room table alone, wracked with sobs and screaming while I typed a reply into a chat window where my friend had asked “How’s it going with you today?”
This must be a kind of grief. I can always feel the scar on my throat pulling. I seek it out with my fingers, feel the ridge of the place where they cut into me. I swing between triumph and grief. The cancer I got is “unlikely to metastasize.” That shit is cold comfort. Unlikely? I would like the solidness of Never.
I’m sitting here, eating the potatoes. Still listening to Kesha. The sun warming my shoulders. My heart sending the blood around. Loss hovering like a fog. I lost half my thyroid. But what I really lost, it seems, is a sense of safety inside this body of mine.