Her name is Blaire Wilson, and she lives on a family farm-turned-B&B/wedding venue in a fictional rural community called Bluefield – which, according to Castle, is tucked in somewhere between New Paltz and Gardiner, at the base of the Shawangunk Ridge.
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!”
Who is more amped up about Santa’s arrival on the Village Green in Woodstock on Monday, December 24: our children or the Big Kids – the Mamas and Papas and shopkeepers and dedicated town officials who put the whole shebang together each year?
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?
I used to numb the area with a spray that is now known to compromise healthy skin tissue, then various topical meds that never worked for me; then I tried ice, but by the time everything got set up for the draw, it was more hassle than it was worth. So now I go commando and just suck it up.
When is boring preferable to interesting? Cancer appointments. No one wants to be the “interesting” patient.