Fortunate Son

Me, without cancer. 12/15/25

One of the “fun” things about blood cancer is that it’s everywhere — all throughout the body. With lymphoma, think Russian Rulette but with lymph nodes: maybe it manifests, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the lymph node is in your neck, maybe it’s deep in your gut where you can’t feel anything. Maybe you’ll be sick, maybe you won’t.

So, after failing two treatments and having the the entire blood-making apparatus (bone marrow/immune system) replaced, for me, annual PET scans are a bit nerve-wracking. Is it still lurking? What’s that discomfort in my abdomen? Are my blood counts off because of meds or cancer? I’ve had bad scans and high Deauville scores before and they’re difficult to see past.

But I’m here to tell you that you can get past the diagnosis. You can get past the fear. You can get past the treatment that makes you feel worse than the disease. You can overcome the most soul-crushing disappointments imaginable.

One of my favorite Winston Churchill quotes is “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

Indeed.

I Feel Good in the Skin that I’m In

My friend said to me at lunch today, “How long have we known each other? We met in what, 1988? I mean, think of all the iterations we’ve been through.” I left with that thought turning over in my head. Friendships like this one are like being in the same skin. You spend more than half your lives together, living and going through everything that entails. And I mean everything. And still, you meet up for lunch 37 years after you first met, it’s all changed and yet nothing has changed. It’s completely comfortable, safe and known.

It’s been a shitty few weeks for both of us, but we’ve been there for each other. Like always really.

Rusted, Rotted, Falling Apart

Rear of House with Flowers, near Morgan Springs, Alabama, 1984, William Christenberry.

I think I was about 50 when things started to go South. Fresh off two really amazing summers in Provincetown, I was desperately underemployed and couldn’t seem to find a job. At least not one in corporate America, like I had. My parents were beginning to exhibit signs of decline; I watched my Mother go through DTs after surgery to replace a hip. I was single and not happy about it. I abused alcohol and drugs and was not happy about that, either. The partying had lost its fun and had an edge. Mondays were hard.

I was lost and it was my fault, for whatever reason.

Like I said last post, a lot has happened. I found my groove professionally. The work came and I enjoyed it and it led to bigger and better things. After a BIG bender one weekend, I started dating my husband. I rode my ass off on the bike and got into primo shape. I helped my folks navigate their way into an easier living situation. On many levels, I was happy and healthy.

But it wasn’t the same as the golden years, more than a decade when it was just me – only one person to care for and limitless possibility. Mom and Dad were self-sufficient and seemingly enjoying their retirement. Money was assuured and health taken for granted. There was endless fun and new friends and adventures. Yep, not much responsibility. It was indeed fine. My friends were in the same boat and boy, did we celebrate.

I’m not a pessimist nor am I a negative person. But I’m 60 and life has changed. I realized today, as the world of those I love was crashing down around us, that this is another transitional stage. If there’s any solace or hope, I guess it’s the promise of the unknown and what comes next. It’s so fucking interesting. And normal. And natural, this thing called life.

Bring it, let’s do it.

…And, we’re back

Magnolia, Fifth Street, May 2025

I’ve been toying with the idea of writing more for myself. Believe it or not, I’m tired of writing about Donald-fucking-J. Trump. Everything I’ve written here is true and there really isn’t much more to add except the loss of our Democracy. Yeah, that.

I’m good though. The last four years have been quite interesting. Definitely not the fun, careless, crazy AKAFrankGreen years, but good nonetheless.

Oh, and I’m cancer-free. And married. And 60. How did this happen?

Turn, Turn, Turn

Well, I was right.

Two indictments, one extremely serious and seemingly unbeatable.

And the moron continues to show no remorse, no sense of purpose other than to serve (and enrich) himself. Me, me, me, me!

Have fun in prison, motherfucker.

It’s Tragedy

Inauguration Day is perhaps the most special in American civic life. This day is the culmination of the original intent of our democracy, an expression of the will of the people in choosing their representative government. It is historic each and every time it happens. It is a day in which the victor and the defeated put aside results in the interest of the future, of the common good.

Loser acknowledges winner.

And importantly, winner acknowledges loser.

Today, Donald Trump willfully chose to remove himself from the dais. He chose not be part of history, not to be part of the legacy of America. Not surprising, his choice was altogether selfish: He abdicated involvement in the interest of himself.

And so it is with Trump. His selfishness knows no bounds. His concern for himself is without equal. We’ve known this for as long as we’ve known Trump. We allowed it because it was citizen Trump, not candidate or President Trump.

Five years ago, the selfishness of Donald Trump did not abate, it only grew as he took office. His disregard for the law, his willful disdain for courtesy, process and protocol, his casual trashing of science, his cruel use of the scapegoat, and indeed, his malicious manipulation of truth all find their source in his unquenchable thirst for himself.

Like contagion, his selfishness spread without limit: Politics. Diplomacy. Art. Sport. Education. Science. Religion. Hyper local matters such as zoning, voting, clean water and air. Even the personal choices of the colors of the clothing we wear were tainted with his stain. Left vs right. Rural vs urban. Me vs you. Us vs them. Red vs blue.

A year ago selfishness blossomed into full tragedy when he so nonchalantly brushed-off the threat of an unknown respiratory virus spreading like wildfire in another highly industrialized, densely populated, economically essential, extremely mobile population. Tragedy most plainly manifested itself in the the agonizing, unnecessary, lonely deaths of thousands of his fellow Americans. And once again, selfishly, he singularly avoided their fate because of his privilege.

He failed to sooth or even recognize the wounds of 400 years of shackles and whips. Not once did he pause to honor the newly dead. He aligned with enemies and dealt in lies. He created chaos as a sort of shield, thinking it would obfuscate the truth. He marched across a tear-gassed street to a house of God brandishing an upside-down Bible in the name of peace. All for himself. All for Donald. All for show. Never for us.

Selfishness begets some things. Tragedy, others: Truth subverted. 400,000 dead. Legions of followers, blindly voting against their own interests. Millions convinced of a false theft. Thousands marching to disrupt what they hold most precious. Hundreds arrested. Lives disrupted. Careers ruined. Five killed. All because of his narcissistic, ongoing rally cry.

All for him.

All because he could not, and cannot, place others before himself. Us. His country.

History will not be kind to him. His followers — lied to, conned, taken advantage of — will be lost, wounded, imprisoned and violent. He committed all of this knowingly. Scores of Americans dead, not at the hand of an enemy, but by this President’s willful neglect and unconscionable ego!

And this, this is the tragedy of Donald Trump.

May he rot in Hell. And may God Bless America.

Young, Gifted and Black

I’m amazed that Black people have not burned this country down to the ground. White America has had its knee on their necks since the day they were stolen from their homes and shipped a world away.

Yet Black Americans keep going. They keep trying. They forgive. They find a way. I’m bewildered at the patience and the strength and the grace.

Yesterday was the latest insult. The angry white mob marches down those same DC streets where Black protesters were gassed. They march right up and in to the Capitol, unfettered, for the most part, in their attempt to hijack Democracy.

And meanwhile, outside my door, in my neighborhood, an alternate, smarter tack is taken. A move to actually strengthen Democracy. A movement that creates real, lasting change and achieves real, lasting power. A generations-long effort that makes America a better nation.

I’m ashamed that those achievements yesterday were once again overshadowed by the knees of ignorant white people.

Congratulations, Black America. Congratulations Stacey Abrams. Congratulations Raphael Warnock. Congratulations thousands of African-Americans doing the decidedly unglamorous work in rural Georgia. Your success is beyond overdue. You deserve it. We have a lot to learn from you.

Fuck and Run

Usually, I’m not one given to reflecting on the past year and my hopes, fears, ambitions and dreams for the New Year.

However, this year was exceptional. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. This year. This motherfucking year of all years.

2020 gave like no other. Hard, no lube. Not even a post-coital cuddle.

Shall we?

• Lost my job
• Cancelled a dream vacation
• Lost my best friend
• Locked down my life
• Cancelled a charity event near and dear to my heart
• Witnessed half my nation go berserk
• Counted along as hundreds of thousands died
• Watched the planet boil
• Confronted the mortality of my parents

But, as per usual, I’m an eternal optimist. In the Navy, we often called what I fear my situation is, “The Fly on Shit Syndrome.” Fly is on a turd but he’s happy ’cause he don’t know no better. Might be me. Might not. Seems cute. Glass half full and all that jazz. Right?

So, without further adieu, the Silver Linings on the Shitbag™:

• Picked-up interesting and challenging work immediately
• Lost weight
• Continued riding
• Told truths to a dying man
• Heard truths from a dying man
• Confronted my own prejudices
• Understood others a bit more clearly
• Cooked more and better
• Created more and better
• Stayed healthy
• Loved more
• Strengthened my primary relationships
• Witnessed movements
• Fried more chicken
• Thought more clearly
• Voted no fewer than 6 times
• Gained confidence
• Drank more booze (fuck you, I deserved it)

Like that fly, I end the year hopeful. I can’t say the same about 2019’s end so here’s to trending the right way.

Peace and Happy New Year!

In My Mind I’m Gone to Carolina

This is one of my all-time favorite images. It’s of my best friend, Matt, and his niece Grace. The picture captures so much about Matt…his patience, his gentle nature, his lovely demeanor, the deep importance he placed on family.

He was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer Labor Day 2019. He died 5 months ago, almost to the day. Today was his 53rd birthday.

Matt was literally the brother I never had. He and I fought. We loved. We argued. We conspired. We avoided each other. We taught. We learned and listened. We shared our joys and our failures and our deepest, most dark secrets. I was part of his family and he of mine. There are few humans I have loved more. I count them on one hand.

Happy Birthday, my brother. You changed this world. I miss you each and every day.