On Knots and Avocados

When was the last time you shit your pants?

I wish I knew how to communicate how dirty the bed sheets feel (are).

I wish I knew where to put the thought that there are people (children) dying awful deaths right now, as I type with my manicured thumbs in my notes app upon this filthy duvet cover.

Maybe even more important to consider: there are people (children) witnessing awful deaths right now.

I wonder how long they’ll feel knotted? Maybe as long as I did watching my sister’s seven-year-old friends die before she finally left. Which is to say, they will never feel the relief of that tangled mess disappear.

It is now a part of their weave, their fabric. It’s cellular. It will unwind and loosen, yes. There is always hope.

My stomach’s been in knots since I ate a weird avocado on Friday. Loose stools, soiled undergarments, you know the drill. We used to play with the neighbor’s dog through the fence under the shade of my grandmother’s avocado trees. (Very famous neighbors, very famous dogs. If I can make the dogs love me I can make their famous owners love me, too.)

The smooth green flesh induces nausea randomly, since an avo-heavy Cobb salad after my first chemo infusion at nineteen. Daddy brought me to a nice sandwich shop in Newbury Park to connect and nourish his cancerous daughter. Can you imagine losing a daughter to pediatric brain cancer three years before sitting down to a post-chemo lunch with the only kid you’ve got left?

Talk about knots.

Since then, avocados just don’t hit right.

It’s filthy here. Manicured & destroyed.

And…

Last night, my two eldest daughters (neither of whom have active cancer), rubbed my back while I whimpered through belly cramps and an X-Files on the sofa.

My husband pulled the most incredible shot of espresso I’ve ever tasted after our naked hot tub time this morning.

This duvet cover is a custom-made sky-blue chenille wonder from one of my mom’s clients. They donated it, she kept it, I stole it during the move to Colorado. It’s easily worth much more than I can pay. And here we are.

Manicured, filthy, dying.

Cuddling with the kids, training dogs, sipping beverages.

Wishing for love and influence and power; hoping someone knows something about anything.

They don’t.

We don’t.

Here’s what I have: this is it. You’ve got today. How can we make it the least fucked-up day possible? Can it be good? I believe so! Yes, knots in fabric, we cannot erase the hard (we don’t want to, trust me). But can we unwind just enough to let a little love in?