Sammy called me this morning, frantic. The car was missing. Last night, I parked it on the corner. This morning, it was gone. He needed to go to work. How had our one-year old Prius vanished? We had four phone calls in a five minute period. All four were haphazard, fragmented, incomplete. I straddled my bike on the corner of Broadway and Ash, and dialed the impound lot. Sammy called back. I disconnected the impound lot. No car, frantic Sammy on the line. I was the one who used the car last. Where was it?
You know that kind of moment? Frantic, scared, incredulous, the moment when you need the world to stop so you can right everything immediately before you lost your brand new car right when you have a seventeen page to-do list? Cancer is like that, but the moment doesn’t right itself. Instead the world spins in slow-motion while you stand there and get dizzingly sick from chemo, and you are trying to hear but you are too tired, and you are straddling your bike but you can’t hold on because your hands are swollen as f*ck and tender and blistering, and there is someone offering you three different flavors of a re-hydration drink but you can’t quite reach them, and your pounding heart is seventeen hundred times louder than the very busy intersection. The moment lasts six months.
Then, after being in this moment for six months, you can clip your helmet back on and start peddling, and at least get to the next intersection, where the crossing guard is Dr. Yoga-Surgeon. It will probably be the worst intersection because it is the intersection at which you will volunteer your arm to a nurse who will wiggle a needle into your vein even though you detest needles, and you will wake up hours later after Dr. Yoga-Surgeon amputates a body part that is intimately a part of how you understand your entire way of being in the world. Dr. Yoga-Surgeon will leave that body part in a specimen jar in a drawer at the cancer agency and it will never feel pleasure, it will never go topless in the sunshine, it will never overflow out of a push-up bra, it will never be whistled at by an inappropriate someone, it will never feed a baby, it will never bounce around in a built-in-bra tank top, it will never shimmy in between your shoulders (ok it never did that anyway, but now it really won’t). It will never do those things ever again because it will be in a specimen jar in formaldehyde at the cancer agency and the top of the jar will probably gather dust as it sits in its spot on a shelf with all the other cancerous, amputated breasts who’s owners traveled this particular and harrowing path.
This intersection will be worse, but before you even get there you find yourself weaving through a gauntlet someone called a street. It is a gauntlet. Broken glass pops your tires. You weave through cars and you carry in your backpack a prescription for a medication that will cause false menopause and block all estrogen in your body, all folded up with your list of dissertation references that somehow still has a thousand errors. The medicine will make your bones weak and your belly flabby. You haven’t fallen off your bike in years, but you skin your knees and your chin and your left elbow when you fall off again and again and again and again. Even though all the knobby points of your body are bloodied from the number of times they have scraped asphalt, there’s some really warped cheerleaders silently screaming about positivity, and you could care less because you think they must be dead cheerleaders come back from the worst Halloween you can remember. Their costumes are terrible. The phone rings, and you ride one-handed while listening to your doctors’ secretary explain something that makes no sense. You wonder about gender and why you never realized how much you loved your breasts. You pause on the curb to download medical articles so you can explain to your doctors’ secretary, so she can explain to your doctor, why she makes no sense. The clasp on your helmet clatters to the ground and that’s the loudest sound you hear even though there are trucks blowing carcinogens into a cloud right in front of you. You begin emailing with your cancer-buddy about the media-archive-storytelling-young-cancer-project you need to do more than you need to breathe, and in rapid-fire style you hammer out a goal broader than the sky itself. What kind of activism would it take, you wonder, to throw the trucks that make clouds of carcinogens off the edge of the world? The amputation intersection is a mirage in the distance, and you cannot tell how close or how far the amputation intersection is from where you straddle your bike, you only know that like you desperately need to start your media-archive-storytelling-young-cancer-project, you desperately need Dr. Yoga-Surgeon’s secretary to change the number of days until the mirage is closer. It would be ironic, asking her to move the mirage, if you had time to think about what a mirage is. But meaning is lost, vocabulary woefully insufficient, language has never seemed more destitute. The feminists/poststructuralists/queer theorists/critical decolonial thought producers had better get to making up some words with slashes and dashes and lots of letters in between, new words, words we’ve never heard of, sounds that have yet to roll around in our mouths, but probably we will also have to make up a whole new alphabet for this one. Language fails. Metaphor fails. Mirage fails. This is these days between chemo and surgery. The only respite is yoga. The bike isn’t allowed inside the yoga studio, but Dr. Yoga-Surgeon is there, and so you know it’s not a dream.
In case you were wondering, the car was moved, towed to the other side of the street. Thank you, tow-truck, for not towing to the impound lot. I left it too close to the driveway. That worked out a little better than cancer.