On February 7, 2019, Erica cast off the final line from her Viking ship and sailed away to her next celestial port. In the hold she carried with her all the love, experiences, gifts and everyday miracles you all have shared with her on her 49-year earthly journey.
The wobble in my voice is new. I sound shaky, frail. I have never heard this sound out of my mouth before. Does Beyoncé ever wake up like this?
Updating my will feels solid and secure – like good shoes in the snow.
After months of reflection, I saw the writing on the wall: brain tumor removal; heart drains; respiratory weakness; sepsis; and because all of that is so boring, we spiced things up by contracting shingles in my right eye.
While this earthly vessel is physically compromised – okay, okay, so is my humor – I still dwell in the “can-” part of cancer.
When you splice a sudden onset fever with a heap of other health challenges, it spells, in the immortal words of Scooby Doo: “Ruh-roh!”
How furious was I? Well, what’s hotter than fire? Try 250,000F of sheer unadulterated rage nebula. And all pinned on my husband.
I make champion eater Sonya “the Black Widow” Thomas look like she’s picking at her plate. I’m also chewing away because I’m eating my feelings: My beloved neurosurgeon has Elvised. Left the building. Gone. Totally out of the blue.
All kinds of fun happening like steroids, my own addled-ness, with things like “How do I dial this number correctly, unlike the first seven times?” and resorting to asking the phone “When are you opening, Crazy Bowlz?
Take the kids: Día de los Muertos celebrations | Model train shows | Why you want an exchange student in your life