Maybe I have cancer and all the shit that’s about to happen good won’t happen to me. Maybe we’ll find out cuz I’ll get pregnant with our first planned baby and when we go into the ultrasound the doctor will go “Oh. Oh my,” and then, her mouth in a thin grimace, will put a hand on my shoulder and go, “I think you know what I’m about to say.”

“I’m fucked?” I’ll say.

“Yup.” she’ll say, and then I’ll die.

Even crazier, maybe I don’t have cancer. Maybe no one does. No one I care about, anyway. Maybe my daughter will grow up. Maybe I will, too. Maybe we really will move into this house we own starting next week, and I’ll get to make the kitchen orange and olive, and we’ll make banana bread and have a garden and at least one more baby and a wedding and maybe every suffering I’ve endured was just because that’s how the swingset called life works, and the joy I’ve experienced in the past year is but the beginning of the incline.

Wow!!

Feels like a jinx to even think it, but I think I might be mega fucking blessed.