For a while now I’ve been staring at this blank screen wishing I hadn’t made a personal commitment to write every day. I’ve also been wishing I hadn’t promised myself I’d be honest. Seriously, that was a stupid thing to do. Currently I’m tired (I know–we’re all tired–welcome to America), I have a headache, and I feel super bloated because I ate pizza on three separate occasions today, so I’m having a difficult time focusing. Additionally, I really don’t want to write about the thing that’s been on my mind all day, so I’ve been hoping I could get out of it. Like that ever works. Still, for over an hour I’ve been bargaining with the muse. Just give me something else to talk about–like the fact that I spent two hours tonight listening to Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like a Woman, not because I’m gay but because I’m getting paid to choreograph it–that’s interesting, right?

But, “No, it’s not,” the muse says. “Tell everyone your mom has cancer.”

I don’t want to. I’m not ready to talk about it. 

“Do it anyway,” he says.

Oh my god, a mouse just ran across my parents’ living room! Let’s talk about that instead. Mice scare me. If only they were like the mice in Cinderella maybe I would–

“You’re stalling.”

Fine, damn it. But just so you know, I’m not happy about this.

“The mouse or the cancer?”

Either.

So yeah, my mom has cancer. They found it in one of her breasts several weeks ago, maybe as many as six or eight. This isn’t the first time I’m talking about it, just the first time I’m writing about it. (Mom said it was okay.) Originally she was told that it was small, localized, and slow-growing, so the assumption has been that the treatment would be fairly simple. I swear. I think the mouse just made one lap around the entire perimeter of the interior of our home. No wonder he looks so skinny. Anyway, I once worked for an attorney who worked out of his house, and I remember one day him standing in the kitchen with a block of cheese that had mold on it. Disgusting, right? But the man actually took out his pocket knife, cut the moldy part off, and ate the rest of the cheese. (He said you could do that because all cheese is basically mold, but I’m still grossed out.) Anyway, that’s how I’ve been thinking of the cancer treatment, something quick and simple that could easily be done in your own kitchen with a pocket knife if you were brave enough. But even if you wanted to let the doctors handle it–no big deal.

So apparently–big deal. Of course, things could always be worse (things could ALWAYS be worse), but we found out today that the cancer is a little more moldy–spread out–than previously thought. So two days from now mom’s going to get a port, which is basically a funnel they implant in your skin so they can pour chemotherapy into your body like motor oil for five months. After that, the plan is mastectomy, followed by radiation, followed by medication for five years.

As of now, that’s all we know. Also, I think we’re all overwhelmed, which is why we ordered pizza.

The fucking mouse just ran–no, sprinted–across the living room. It was so fast! Maybe I should call it Florence Griffith-Joyner. But I can’t think about that right now. I have so many other things to think about right now. Like FloJo gives a shit. I mean, a mouse just shows up in your home uninvited and does whatever the hell it wants. But of course, you’ve got to try to get rid of it. You can’t just let it stay. Still, I guess sometimes it takes a lot more work than you think it will. And maybe some days you wonder if you’re strong enough for what lies ahead.

Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.

“With the mouse or the cancer?”

Both.