Seriously, it's probably nothing.

How do I even write this? I guess I start at the beginning, give the middle some attention, and then craft an ending. Or maybe, I should start at the ending? This meandering story might make more sense then.

On Friday night, I had planned to be watching a dear friend stand up in a rayon leopard print blouse and perform as Falstaff. Instead, I will be face down with my "breasts" in an MRI Machine. It will chunk and whir, and I will listen to whatever they want to play in the room.

"You know this feels different than last year."

There's something comforting that I have a survivorship doctor who knows what I feel like, who can trace the hidden topography of my body with her hand, who can find out of place tissue like a farmer finding loose posts in a fence.

It's also scary. My body, the great betrayer, the self-killer. What happens when you become your own death?

Cancer never really leaves me. Both my cancers were fast-- designed to spread and grow and reproduce. They are cancers, and we don't understand cancer enough.

Cancer settled in my soul. A ghost. A memory. A thing that returns like a long lost evil twin in season 8.

Everything feels good and feels quiet. Life is getting back to normal. The memory faint ---

"You know this feels different than last year."

I'll keep you posted, as we all know, this is probably nothing more than lymph fluid and scar tissue.

Just remember to hug your loved ones. Remember to do all you can for a cause you care about.

Our lives are not guaranteed. They are finite and fickle. They end.

Maybe next weekend, I will get to see Falstaff.

And this really hurts

"The postings on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent the views of the

American Cancer Society”

A week before she died, I held Carol’s hand. I’ve written about her death before,

but today I’m thinking of her. My heart is in that room. My hand in her hand. It’s dry and cold and blue. Her breathing is harsh and labored, and her wish for me that I live is so clear in each minute we share.

I’m with her today because, in 2004, she went to a rural hospital in Southern Oregon with a distended belly and pain, and she was turned away after a cursory exam. She was told that they couldn’t cure fatness.

Because she didn’t have health insurance, she had no way to get a second opinion. The hospital was not allowed to run tests, and a year later, almost dead, they had to treat her. (This is your safety net people.) A year after that I held her hand, and a week later, she died.

CAROL DIED BECAUSE SHE COULDN’T AFFORD HEALTH INSURANCE. SHE DIED BECAUSE SHE HAD A PRE-EXISTING CONDITION.

To all our lawmakers who voted today, who removed health care from 24 million Americans, who shoved me back into a high-risk pool should I ever lose my job, who destroyed basic medical services, I hope you never have to hold your loved one’s hands as they die and know that if they had been born richer or had a different life, they would have lived at least a little while longer.

So the new act is going to the senate, and it won’t pass there, but these lawmakers must be held accountable. Please call, write, protest, shout, scream, resist. This is our country, and they work for us. Do it for me, and most of all, please do it for Carol.

Peace and love,

Amanda