My stepmother told me she had breast cancer, which is more than my mom ever did with her brain cancer, had to find out that in the car due to my dad accidentally mentioning it on the phone with someone else, and then being surprised no one had told us and shakily explaining to us half of what was going on.

My mom explained the other half like this:

“It comes back, they zip in there and take it out. I’m getting the best medicine. It’s really no big deal. I’m going to be just fine.”

And then she’d get mad if you suggested she’d ever die.

My stepmother explained her breast cancer as stage zero, they don’t think it’ll be that big of a deal, they’ll just zip in there and take it out. It’s “really more of an inconvenience than anything else.”

It seems like everyone gets cancer or alzheimers. When will it be my turn?

I’m tired of this shit, tired of loving people and then they go, either slowly or all at once, telling me it’s fine the whole time. (maybe it is fine??)

When I get cancer it’ll be an ordeal. 

Not for me. I’ll lavishly lounge and lament, I’ll tell my husband it is a very big deal. I’ll be too tired to do the dishes and too sick to stop vaping. I’ll wear big false eyelashes and scarves even if my hair doesn’t fall out. I’ll end every argument with a, “I hope I don’t die before we make up.” Then I’ll take a puff of a cigarette and cough pathetically. Blood will spot my hand like flowers blooming in my palm.

We went wedding dress shopping yesterday and nothing fit right. The only thing that did looked like a bridesmaid dress. My stepmother and I haven’t always gotten along, but we do now, and she was there, and she was blunt and honest with me about the shape of my anxiety and how to make the day comfortable. I could see her old. I could feel her death on the tip of my anxiety like a diver ready to jump. I could tell she thought my kid was spoiled.

I kind of love her.

We ended up finding a belt and these draping arm things dripping with fake pearls and this veil spectacular in its simplicity and suddenly the bridesmaid dress that was the only one that fit me right was spectacular, and I was not awkwardly fat, I was fabulously fat, a greek goddess spilling good fortune from her tits. 

Stepmom got excited, got enthusiastic, got in my face and told me she’d pay like she was my mother, like I have parents. “Your dad and I; we wanna do this for you!”

It’s always either a desert or a flood on my face.

Maybe it’ll be fine.