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July 31, 2026

It was only Wednesday when I wrote this, but I had already wanted the workweek to be over. 

My blood pressure, I presume, had been elevated the past few days. I unexpectedly realized one of my kids wanted to move back in, but also wanted to do it very quickly, an idea I was not fond of. Because of his situation, turning him away is not an option. With gavel-related issues that seem to never end and my home and high-maintenance dog to manage, I feel like I’m going to pull my hair out. It’s already pixie-length, so it’s going to leave me looking like when I just started chemo 24 years ago: bald, sick, and with limited socioemotional support. 

Last month was the anniversary of two events that changed my life: my first breast cancer diagnosis, and when I moved to Washington state. When I later submitted myself for care after it progressed to stage four, the help I received from the Seattle-based hospital was top-tier for the time, though lacking some semblance of bedside manner. As one of the nurses changed the bandage covering my open chest wound, I remember her words clear as a bell: “Well, you’re not going to be in Playboy anytime soon.” The carelessness of her speech now makes me think she was as autistically blunt as I was. I simply stared at her, and stoically said, “I guess not.” She left the room and I never saw her come back. 

Though diagnosed with breast cancer, it would still be twenty-three years before I was diagnosed with autism…and ADHD…and making the self-discovery that I was lesbian. 

Turning back the clock in my mind, I wonder if I had known I was autistic and lesbian at the time I moved out here, it’s possible my life trajectory would have had me veering off into some unknown direction. Imagine the scene: fresh to the PNW as a baby lesbian, living in my own apartment, discovering the local dating arena as it stood in 2002. I almost think I would have jumped with two feet into opting in for the mastectomy rather than against it. And when my hair fell out from the Adriamycin/Cytoxan combo, instead of crying as I did, I imagine what would have happened if I had kept it very short, as it is now. Going out to transfer medical transcription work in a pixie, jeans, and a flannel to and from 1st Hill Swedish surely would have given off the dyke vibe. And to think I could have had my first girlfriend by now. 🙂 I sigh heavily, as I consider these daydreams of mine, thinking I could have known who I was, were it not for the heavy mask I was wearing and the institutional expectations I was bearing for the sake of society, not myself. 

Wishful thinking only goes so far, though, and hoping I could go back in time never changes the reality of the present. Now I am forced to practice patience, keep myself steady and hold my head high, and remind myself daily that I’ve survived the worst, and will continue to do battle in the wars laid out in front of me, where my energy is needed most. 

Twenty-five years ago, soon after understanding the life-threatening impact of my stage two diagnosis that would soon become metastatic, I wrote a prose poem called “Declaration of War.” Seeing as my battles have yet to end, this poem is as relevant today as it was then:

I walk onto the battlefield
My sword in hand
Prepared to fight
Relentless is my strength
Powerful is my spirit
Those that choose to arm themselves against me
Will not stand
They shall not survive
I am strong.
They are weak.
I am powerful.
They are powerless.
I am in control.
They will lose control.
My allies are with me.
God is on my side. 
I shall live in peace.
My enemies will be defeated.
They will suffer.
They will not stand against me. 

This is a declaration of war. 

⚢

In today’s highly autobio flash fiction, “Forever Patient,” a middle-aged woman finds herself in the doctor’s office for a procedure aligning her more with her current identity. She ultimately faces the reality that her former life can never be truly erased from her mind – forever a battle scar that only she would own. 

Due to continuing extenuating legal and financial circumstances, I will be away from my website for the entire month of August, as I focus on getting my manuscript for Just For Her ready for print. I hope you enjoy my creative writing today, and I will return with new ideas to share the first Wednesday of September. Thank you all for reading my stories and poetry, and I will see you all then! ⚢

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FOREVER PATIENT

The nurse wrapped the blood pressure monitor around my arm, and squeezed the black bulb. My fingers started to lose their rosy pink color as I stared at the clock. The Velcro tore apart from its adhesive as she unraveled the medical device from my upper arm. She declared aloud, “110 over 70,” as she recorded the data in her paperwork. “You’re the third patient this morning to say that the band was wrapped too tightly. But we need to do that to get an accurate reading.” Her captivating blue eyes made it easy for me to focus on her. “Please remove your shoes and stand on the scale.” I slipped out of my clogs and stepped up on the plate. 

“5 foot, 3 inches, 165 pounds,” she said, brushing her hair behind her left ear, and once again wrote on the paper attached to her transparent clipboard. “Please sit here, and the doctor will be in to see you shortly.” She smiled as she closed the sliding metal door behind her. 

I swung my legs back and forth, as my eyes wandered the room. I was woken at 4:30am by my dog, demanding I let him out; I told him no, and to lie down, which bought me a couple more hours. The hallway thermostat still sat at 74 degrees, the same as it stood last night. It didn’t help that the device sat right underneath the skylight. The numbers on the thermostat reminded me of my bank account, also reading three digits long, evidence I needed income soon or I would go bankrupt. I was losing the financial battle in a war of attrition against my ex-husband. I remembered looking at him decades ago, seeing red cartoon hearts in my mind’s eye. But when he looked back, his eyes showed only dollar signs. The decision to say “That’s all, folks!” was ultimately mine as well. No more games. At least for now. 

“It’s good to see you again!” The doctor pulled a rolling chair up to me as I sat on the reclining patient table. The paper scrunched under my bottom, as I shuffled my body into a comfortable position. I had been waiting 15 minutes, and they wanted to engage in small talk. Time is money, I thought to myself. I sighed, waiting for a conversation with substance. 

“I see that you marked a change in your identity on your profile. Congratulations on discovering your true self!” They adjusted their glasses, as they rose from their chair, eyeing my face up close. The nurse entered the room again with silver tools in hand for today’s procedure. After a brief inspection, they sat back in their chair. “Whenever you are ready, you can lean all the way back,” the doctor said, as they put on their blue gloves and I propped up my feet. I should have gone in for a pedicure, I thought as I looked at the color disappearing from my toenails. 

“Take a deep breath,” they said, as I squeezed the nurse’s hand. I glanced at the clock, then closed my eyes, and lightly hummed to myself. 

I heard a voice in my ear. “I saw in your chart you were diagnosed with breast cancer. Way to go on staying in remission!” 

I opened my eyes. “Yes, it’s been 23 years. Stage 4, by the way. The drama actually began when I was 26. Twenty-five years, four kids, and one ex later, I’m definitely in a different place.”

She patted my hand, and looked directly at me. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

I nodded my head, looking briefly at the clock. 

“Okay, it’s out.” The doctor showed me the device they removed. Its shape reminded me of a bow and arrow. I realized all this time, for the past 14 years, that I had already held what I needed to be a warrior in the battlefield of my own life. They enclosed it in a plastic box, and handed it to me along with my post-encounter note. “It was good to see you again. Let me know if you have any questions.” I grabbed my purse and headed out to the lobby. 

“Excuse me, miss, you forgot to pay your bill.”

“Oh, right,” I said, turning around, and sat at the chair in front of the receptionist.

“You owe a flat $600.00.”

I sighed, slowly pulling out my credit card. After handing it to her, I rested my elbows on the counter and rubbed my temples. She lowered her glasses on her nose, and looked directly at me. “Trust me, it gets easier. When you get to be my age, you learn what battles need to be fought and which ones you need to surrender.” She handed me back my card. “You’ll get there.”

I put the card back into my wallet. “I am already there.” ⚢

 

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The Revealed Story Press is a lesbian-owned publishing house. Its mission is to produce creative writing and promote causes that center women, women’s issues, radical feminism and lesbian visibility. While I stand in solidarity with the broader rainbow community, and support the rights of all marginalized people, the specific purpose here is to ensure the visibility and voices of women and lesbians are never erased.