with real, actual, grown-up person movers

It’s way too early for anything. But apparently not packing. I’m up, it’s actually not that early by morning-lovers’ standards. I’ve been packing for about one stressful week now. Have I mentioned? I’m moving to Brooklyn. Yep. I can’t quite shake the David Sedaris line that goes something like, “everyone moving to a borough outside of Manhattan tried to play up all the extra space they’d have and money they’d save, but they all had about them an air of defeat.”

It’s been 10 years since he wrote that and things have changed. I don’t feel defeated so much as just tired of trying to swim in this insanely expensive borough; in the last few years my building has filled up with investment bankers and the like. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just don’t see my people any more. Unless I go to Brooklyn and there they are, looking arty with their hip knitting bags, and stylish glasses and small-label clothing. It’s a relief.

I’m not getting that much more space. It’s a junior one-bedroom—with a “closet wall” instead of a real wall—it doesn’t quite reach the ceiling and has no official door, just a way. But it does mean that I can stay sleeping while T plugs away on the Internets or watches “24″ with headphones on my computer (I had to bail out of the show after the mother rape in the first few episodes). It means I can put my little table in my little kitchen and not see my bed when I’m sitting on the couch. It also means I’ll be on a tree-lined street that’s near the train and my friend C is only a few blocks away. Friends of a friend live directly across the street, my Gyrotonic instructor lives nearby; it’s definitely not defeat anymore so much as a proud survival. Like, I can make it in the city without you, Manhattan. In fact I can make it so well I can disdain you without a sour grape present. Almost.

But it’s sad. I’ve been living in my cute box for seven years now. And have been through about 10 mini lifetimes in it: the mid-20s dotcom boom, the bust, 9/11, grad school, working downtown, working at a dream magazine, cancer, chemo, post-cancer, freelancing, and now my current job. And we won’t list the boy eras but let’s just say it went from littered and miserable to one person and better (and all the spikes and troughs that better brings). Parties and one-on-one gabs and all my efforts to make this place feel like home. Which I think I finally did. And now my shoes are in a (giant) box, and I’m surrounded by labels and Sharpies and boxes and garbage bags and am listening to Cat Power and debating the point at which I pack my stereo and TV—I don’t actually move till a week from today.

The only defeats I feel are not really about Manhattan, but about my writing. I’m sad that I wasn’t able to finish my book proposal here, write a book and get all semi-famous at once. I feel like I’ve disappointed myself and a handful of other people. Like I just can’t quite do the dream. For work I’m re-reading The Alchemist. And it’s all about following your “Personal Legend” no matter what. And it dusts it off, awakens the part of me that wants, more than anything, to get it all done. And the part of me that tackles it before it can speak. You know? Though, ok, there have been plenty of successes here and I’m not so good at nursing those as I am the alleged failings.

Anyway, I’m touched that people are still checking in here. And now, I need to wade through the detritus of pre-move and find some clothes and some toothpaste and a way out the door.

“You’ve become boring to us,” Dr. Z said after giving me the results of my PET. “and that’s a compliment.” Yay.

Though then he told me to lose weight. Ah, the days of chemo-slim so far behind. I guess I’ll deal with the trade-off. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Now I have to figure out what’s up with the headaches etc. But in a more relaxed, non mortality-inspired way. But it’s good news. The scan itself was the worst I’ve had. Mainly because I got food poisoning the night before (tho T was fine and we ate the same thing) and so was hurling night and morning. When test time came (they were significantly kinder–apparently it’s the CAT scan people, not the PETs, who are meanies), I had to drink the requisite freezing cold raspberry Crystal Lite “contrast dye” ick. (Does Crystal Lite give it to them for free for the product placement promotional benefits? “Mm, honey, this fruit drink seems like it would taste delicious without the radioactive isotopes. Let’s pick some up on the way home….” Maybe not.)

By the time I was on the gurney in the donut, all I could think was, “Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke.” I imagined all the cute lambies and bunnies and puppies on cuteoverload.com to keep calm. For 25 very long minutes. Finally when I realized I was definitely going to puke on their zillion dollar machine, I called out to the technician: “Jose? Jose? How much longer?” “20 seconds,” he said. When I got out I promptly started sobbing–I was so scared of puking and having to be injected with isotopes and all all over again–and then soon was puking into a basin Jose handed to me. Uhg. He kept telling me not to cry. I heard a sweet voice in my head say, “Ignore him, you cry all you need.” I did.

And today is 9/11. Five years later. I sat in the church I spent that day in, this morning on my way to work. It looked completely different than I rememebred, oddly enough. But it was nice to make some time. To remember, to honor, to pray and send blessings.

I wrote this for Beliefnet–an essay on 9/11 five years later.

Some of the reader comments are just brutal, some of the most hurtful I’ve ever received. Thankfully someone actually defended me–unsolicited, for free, and not me–which made me feel better than it probably should have.

Anyway. I hope you are all doing all you need to both muddle through and acknowledge the day.

If all else fails, Suri is really pretty.

Normal Feels Shitty

Hi Kids,
It’s been much too long. But I guess when the cancer stuff kind of faded, the blog kind of lost its tension (aka, just felt like random whining). Or at least a tension that I can write about in public. I’m having an unschedule PET scan tomorrow, though, and for the moment at least, the tension has returned.

Everything is fine, technically. I even have a little green flag next to my name in the Memorial Sloan Kettering database. A sea of red flags, I could see from across the room, and a handful of green ones. This means all my counts are back to normal–white blood cells, red blood cells, iron level, liver counts, everything. So it’s weird that I feel like absolute crap. Tired, achey, stressed, cranky, teary, your basic disaster. But it’s the return of the mystery back pain that has me most concerned and my doctor a little concerned. So tomorrow more electric koolaid (or raspberry Crystal Lite spiked with radiation if you please) and another scan. Uhg. And I have to go alone because T just started a great new job today (go T!) and everyone else in my life also suddenly seems to have normal working hours. Blech.

Anyway, hopefully the PET scan people aren’t too terrible–don’t get me started, ok, I am– most of the hospital is exceedingly nice, seems to keep in mind that cancer isn’t made more fun by rudeness, but the area where you go to get scans? Oh my lord. It’s like the freaking DMV down there. “NO! This is NOT where you wait.” “Um, I’ve been waiting here for the last eight scans. Can you just tell me where I should go?” “You did not wait here before.” And so on. And blaring CNN from the fancy new plasma hanging on the new woven wallpaper. With literally, raging fires and wars and bombs. When I asked the desk person if she could turn down this mayhem, she said “No. People are watching it.” If by watching you mean staring into space vacantly while they contemplate new evidence of their potential demise–made worse by watching destructive, violent images–then yes, they are. Stupid Scan Desk Fuckers.

Anyway. I got a really nice note today from someone who read my blog asking for more posts, which was insanely nice and comforting and de-isolating. And affirming. I feel like anything but a writer these days. And stressed and scared and scared that stress is causing my cells to freak which makes me freak even more, etc.

But this weekend T and I had a lovely time on Fire Island in the storm, post-storm, and sunny weather. Very cozy and sweet and basically relaxing.

Kisses and love and the like for whoever might still be checking this from time to time.