It’s a funny thing to be declared cancer free. I saw Dr. Matty this week and that is what he said. “You are in remission.” It feels very fast. A little over six months ago, I did not have cancer, then I did, and now I don’t. Modern medicine amright?

Everyone wants to know if I’ve been celebrating and yes I have, but also there’s a lot of weeping. A fair amount of rage. I’m told this is all normal. Once you get through the task of treatment, the real feelings come.

I find myself in a near constant state of overwhelm. I have more things to say about that, but I have to write that post, then beat myself up over that post, then post it, then second guess it and unpublish it, then re-publish it, and refuse to look at this substack for a week as I heal from my vulnerability hangover.

Last week, I went to a creativity and writing retreat hosted by Jen Pastiloff in Ojai. It turned out to be less writing and more art and you know what? Great. Love it. I promised myself before I went that I was just going on the ride - no expectations, no disappointment.

We sat in the opening circle on the first night and were told to share something weird/awkward/intimate about ourselves. I told everyone that when I first meet you (anyone), I am usually running through a script of How Humans Talk To Each Other. I have usually stolen this script from books or movies where someone appears to have a successful human interaction.

“What do you do?”

“….. And what do you do?”

“I am from….”

“Oh, I am from…., but I live in…. now”

“Oh, you have dogs? How many? Can I pet them? Will you be weirded out if I avoid you for the rest of our time together just so I can imagine hugging your dog?”

It’s not until we get weird with each other or find a niche topic in which we both share an interest that I feel at ease - sharing my thoughts and opinions on various Housewives franchises, revolutions, France, cake.

(If Charlie, Jen’s son, had not been in attendance, I probably would have said, “If you invite me to your dinner party, I will talk about butt plugs” which is my standard bio, mostly because it’s accurate. I worked in two sex shops as my day jobs and that really fucks up your sense of what is appropriate to discuss in public, but anyway I’m just here to say, don’t put anything in your butt that doesn’t have a base. No base, no trace. And also you can never have enough lube. Just a couple nuggets from me to you because it’s important to me that you have good sex.)

After our weird/awkward/intimate shares - which only served as yet another reminder that none of us is a weird as we think we are - Jen showed us the massive collection of art supplies she brought with her. She asked us to close our eyes.

“Imagine yourself in a year. Five years. Ten.”

The tears took me entirely by surprise. Not the tears. Those are commonplace, actually. The absolute body slam to the chest - that’s what took me by surprise. I couldn’t breathe. Everyone around me closed their eyes and thought about who they want to be in one year. Five years. Ten.

I couldn’t breathe.

Would I have five years? Ten? Of course, Dr. Matty says this is all going to be fine and I’m going to get very old, but nothing is guaranteed really. If I did have five years, would I be sick again? Would I have had to go through more chemo? In ten years? Will I be laughing at my naïveté?

I tried not to let everyone see. Not that I’m ashamed or embarrassed, I just truly didn’t have the energy. I am so goddamned tired of talking about cancer and having cancer and how do I feel and what kind and how many treatments left and then what happens. I had hoped to avoid it.

WHICH IS HILARIOUS BECAUSE I CAN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. EVEN WHEN I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

As Jen asked everyone to imagine what they want to call in in the next year, five years, ten… I could only hear a single word, as if being spoken directly into my little hairless ear.

Here.

I want to be here. I tried to direct my mind to other desires. Financial freedom. Creative freedom. Writing and directing films. A country house in France. A house in Los Angeles with more than one bedroom. A pool. Self-assurance and a magical ability to set boundaries and hold them without guilt. I would finally start my cat hospice.

I set about with a cute little piece of wood and some pink paint and gold leaf and I made a little cute piece of art that meant nothing. Visual arts are hard for me. I am a really (uncomfortably so) literal person. I do not tend to think of myself as imaginative and I get very caught up in doing things right. I struggled with this visual art - couldn’t I just write something instead?

I mean, yes, I could. There were no rules, as Jen reminded us many times. But I write all the time, I wanted to do something new. So I tried with my little pink and gold leafed wooden thing. When I finished, I felt incomplete. My piece was weird and in no way conveyed my desire to run a home for old, dying cats in the South of France.

I found a little tiny canvas. Not even as big as my hand. I absent-mindedly painted it yellow. Yellow gold. I stared at that for a while. Okay. Here is a little yellow gold rectangle.

I wandered inside where I found stencils. I looked for the letters I needed. There was an H, two Fs, a P, and some Is. No Es or Rs left. I took what I could scrounge. I placed them carefully on my little yellow gold canvas.

I ripped up the I so I could put a little leg on the P and little feet on the Fs. It wasn’t quite sticking so I sprayed some adhesive on. That blew everything apart and I had to start over.

It doesn’t look like the sleek golden yellow and pink piece I had imagined when I started ripping the Is apart. But I, too, am not the sleek, hyper competent, classic beauty with unmatchable time management skills I swear to myself I will be every tomorrow, if I can just get enough sleep. My body does not and will never look the way I want.

But I’m here. And so is my little messy piece of art. As janky as the two of us are, we’re just going to keep showing up, putting ourselves together in whatever way we can, because come hell or high water, we are are going to fucking France.