You did see this post coming

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
PET scans and dead dogs and pathology written
Impeachments, pandemics . . .

Yeah. I’m not Randy fuckin Rainbow, so I’m not even going to keep going.

Last night, I started thinking about FALA (the school where I’ve taught for going on 7 years) and about my classroom and about how happy I was damn near every morning that I pulled into the parking lot of that school.
Like even if I was in a bad mood during my morning drive,
indeed I sometimes was,
pulling into the lot and seeing the kids and my colleagues:
it always helped.
I know it sounds like a ridiculous thing to say about a “workplace,” but that school was my Valhalla. I am so grateful for every single moment I spent there. Truly. Fucking truly.
FALA unexpectedly came in to my life and changed me (for the better) on so many levels.

So I’m thinking about this last night, and Sarah is asleep, and suddenly I’m awash in grief and just sobbing in the dark. (This sob-fest may have been triggered, in a necessary, cathartic way, by a package that arrived on our doorstep yesterday from two of my current students.)

I’m sure the universe has seen many Americans “sobbing in the dark” this year.

Here is where I want to launch into a tirade about how it “didn’t have to be this way.” But why bother?
It IS this way.

Here we fucking are.

The pandemic is still raging.
I still have cancer.
That despotic fucking psycho is still in the White House
at least for a minute yet.

Today marks the 7 year anniversary of my move to Arizona.
Flagstaff, more specifically.
I moved in the middle of a snowstorm. One flight from Chicago Midway
to Phoenix and then up the mountain in a shuttle.
Every passenger was tense and I was tense because I’d just quit my job and left my family and friends in the Midwest and had whittled my worldly belongings down to three suitcases and a dog and . . . yeah, it was intense.

It was also the right choice.
Even when I miss all the people I love in
Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin I have zero regrets about my choice to go West.

When my PET scan results came in last January, they were given to Sarah.

I can’t remember why.

I might have been too scared to hear them myself, might have needed a middle woman.

I remember Sarah calling me at work, leaving a VM because I was teaching and did not see the call.

When I saw I had a message, I had someone — maybe Tulasi, maybe Gessica, or Janine — come to my room to watch my students while I stepped out on to campus, stood near the outdoor amphitheater, and listened to my wife tell me how bad (or not) the cancer was.

And it wasn’t “that” bad.

The cancer had spread to my spine, and of course the chest wall,
but nothing in my brain, lungs, liver . . .

I cried on the phone with my wife.
I was standing on campus.
School was still open.
The weather was nice, even though it was late January.
Before returning to my room, but after ending the call with Sarah,
I went to the front office. Mike and Tulasi and Jed were there.
I was in the copy room.
I was crying with relief —
only 2020 would make “spinal and chest wall” cancer seem like mercy
— and when I told my colleagues that the results were basically positive
or at least NOT as bad as they could have been, they hugged me and cried with me.
We fucking hugged.
No one had a mask on.

(To be honest, writing this is incredibly difficult.
Memory is so hard right now, for all of us.)

Anyway, I went back to my room full of seniors, and I was still crying,
and I said to them, “Pack up your stuff. We’re going to the park. I can’t teach anymore today.”
So we walked in a little pack to the park and I told them what I learned and a couple kids cried with me and hugged me.
No elbow bumps.
No air hugs.
No one was in a mask.
We were together.
This part of our lives had not yet changed.
“First and last time I take y’all to the park,” I joked because
I was notoriously a teacher who NEVER took kids to the park
because frankly I fucking hate the park (at least that park) and
the students laughed and none of us had any clue how fucking true
that statement was.

Two weeks after my PET scan,
we scheduled surgery to remove the tumor,
and I was set up with a radiation schedule for the cancer on my spine.
I think I went every morning for two or three months.
Or was it every afternoon?
In a year like this, who can remember such details?
I only remember that I had radiation: lots and lots of it.
The burn was incredibly painful and grotesque.
I remember that.

But the radiation was AFTER the surgery and the surgery
was BEFORE Bernie died and BEFORE I was done with radiation,
the pandemic came.
And we went on spring break and
never came back to school again.
And oh how much I cried.

Buckets.

The last time I saw my parents was February of 2020.
The last time I saw my sister was summer 2019.
Same with most of my closest friends.
2019.
I used to go to Chicago every summer. See my siblings, my parents, my friends — friends I’ve known since I was a child.
When I got my cancer dx, I figured I’d stay home in summer 2020 and let friends and family come to me (which they would have).
I was so tired from what was transpiring in my life,
but such visits, of course, never came to pass.

Then we got Abe.

Abe almost died, and I think if he had it might have really broken me in a bad way.
I remember the day I went to say goodbye to him.
Like, after all the year had handed Sarah and I, it also made us say goodbye to our puppy.
Miraculously Abe (who was THE story of the year, as far as I’m concerned)
lived. Though thankful and relieved, I think Sarah and I were both seriously fucked up over the experience.
How could we not have been?

Abe is sitting outside my office door.
Or he’s in Sarah’s office.
Or he’s napping on the couch while the two of us work.
He lived. He’s healthy. Almost a year old, and I love him so.

When I first found the “mass” in my back, way back in November 2019,
I thought, “I cannot do this again. I just cannot.”

I thought back to who I was in 2011, when I first had cancer,
I felt I no longer knew that version of myself. That version, Old Me,
seemed somehow more brave.
“Who was she? How did she manage?
I could never do that again.”

But I am, and then some. I have done things this year that were far more terrifying than anything I’ve ever had to do before (medically speaking) and I feel I have handled this calamity with a measure of grace. So I’m fucking proud of myself.

Despite the results, the scans, the pandemic,
fucking Trump, his followers, the infusions and injections,
the radiation burns, rejections, grief and bad reactions —
I still want this life.

Because Abe is in it. Because there’s this wonderful prickly pear growing along the fence in my new backyard. Because yesterday I got to watch my mother-in-law’s Arabian horse run laps around me on an actual ranch.
Because in this very moment there is no pain in my body.
Because there is still good fuckin music, and so many songs I love
that I haven’t even heard yet.
Because I have work that I love
and relationships I cherish
and because, most days,
I feel a sense of purpose and meaning.
And because, most importantly,
I still feel so much love and feel loved so much.

This is probably the first piece of writing I’ve crafted in which I’ve had to take frequent “cry breaks.”

During my last such break, Sarah entered THE STUDIO (always in all caps)
I didn’t hear her come in because my music was too loud
and when she saw I was crying she said, “Oh no. What’s wrong?”
And I told her I was writing this piece and feeling feelings.
And then I cried watching her read the piece over my shoulder.
And she is accustomed to my tears. Gruber women (of which I am one)
are really good at crying.
Like even in a “typical year,” I could cry forever and still find more things to cry about.

What I’m saying is I’m really good at crying. No shame.
The feels are genuine, there’s just a preponderance of them.

[SIDEBAR: I recently re-watched American Beauty and posted about the experience on FB.
If you ever saw the film, you’ll recall that one of the most cringe inducing scenes involves this boy showing his girlfriend a film he made of a fucking plastic bag blowing around in the wind —
you know, it was 1990's “find-beauty-in-the-everyday!” American schlock — and he says, “Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world, I can’t take it” or some shit.
Well, my friend Keith paraphrased this as: “Sometimes there’s so much trash in the world, I can’t take it.”
And I really feel like the film could have redeemed itself had that been the actual line because THAT is a true statement, both literally and figuratively: sometimes there’s so much trash in the world, I can’t take it.]

This year has been so fucked up for Sarah, too.
When we first started talking about marriage, I repeatedly reminded her that my cancer could come back (I really knew it someday would — one of those “gut feelings” I never could ignore).

She wasn’t fazed, and this year when I’ve been sick or getting ready for some procedure that’s going to upend our lives — at least for a bit — she’s assuaged the guilt I can’t help but feeling. Sometimes, when you’ve leveled up in your health problems you feel like a real depressing drag on the people around you.
During an especially low point, emotionally, this year I asked her if she’d still have married me if she knew I was going to get cancer again and it was going to be PRETTY FUCKING BAD (no little squamous cell carcinoma for me!), and she looked at me like I was crazy.

She’s THE unsung hero of my year. Like Sarah gets THE Oscar in the story of my life this year.

And if we’re being honest, she probably literally saved my life — she made goddamn sure I got my ass in the car and went to the ED when, last month, I got crazy sick. And it was a good call — my potassium levels were so fucked up by the time I was admitted, I was sitting on the precipice of heart failure.
Whoops!

The other unsung hero of my life this year is Virgil.
I met Virgil at FALA, and I’m so fucking glad I did.
He’s one of the funniest, smartest fuckers I’ve ever known.
He takes my shit and gives it right back. I love the man like a brother.
That boy came and sat in the mammography waiting room with me when I had the ultrasound on my back.
He didn’t hesitate to say “yes” when I awkwardly asked him if he would.(Sarah had an out-of-town meeting she couldn’t get out of; we didn’t know if it was cancer, anyway. Not then.)
I was scared to go alone, so Virgil came along and made me laugh in the waiting room by impersonating the judge who sentenced Ted Bundy in a southern drawl, Now, yer such a nice young man, shame you messed up your life by killin all those ladies . . .
The woman at the desk didn’t find this as amusing as we did.

I don’t know where all these good men are coming from, but I’ve been helped, in various ways by some remarkable ones this year: Mike, Dustin, Rob, Jed, Dr. K. . . .

And, as always, wonderful women.
Laura, Betsy, Janeece, Stacy, Janine, Carol, Ignacia, Tulasi, Deidre, Kim
— I’m forgetting so many, but I’d be so lost without all of you, and
if you’re one of my IRL friends (you know who you are — particularly those of you in Flagstaff), you’ve been as essential to my survival as the Ibrance.

I can’t even begin to write about my students (current and former) because I really think I might die of dehydration if I cry anymore over this little, schlocky piece of NYE writing.
And if I write at any length about “my kids,” I will cry myself to death.
(Hi, Abby, Andy, Katie, Lovenia, Jazz, Ember, Evan, Diego, Maddie, Natalie, Karis, Bellicia, Emma, Sophie, Nico . . . so many I can’t possibly name you all: that’s how fucking lucky I am.)

And the Flagstaff community as a whole.
And the parents of my students (current and former),
I will never forget the delighted astonishment I felt at your generosity — whether in the form of rice pudding (you know who you are) or money (you know who you are) or just an email to acknowledge what I was going through . . .

Oh for the gods’ sake, I’m fucking crying again.

My point is that 2020 wasn’t all bad.
There were beautiful moments.
I received a publishing contract for my next book.
I was able to move and keep my job, for now.
We have health insurance, for now.
And what made the worst moments tolerable
was connection to other people and living things
(dogs, houseplants, cacti).
I made some incredible new friendships and strengthened others.
I became more human with my students, and I think it has made me a better educator.
The loss of “real school” (let’s be honest — this shit isn’t “real school,” no matter what we all want to tell ourselves) cemented that I want to spend the rest of my life in dedication to the education and well being of teenagers.
This year showed me that even when I feel like I am at the bottom of my emotional and mental resources, there’s always a little more.
This year has taught me (and maybe you) that though my spirit can be shaken to its core and fractured, it cannot be destroyed. Not completely.
It’s like the Camus quote which is so cliched now I won’t even repeat it.
No more cliches in the New Year, okay? Seriously.

Do I think 2021 will be better
Who do I look like? Nostradamus?
I feel like 2020 set the bar so goddamn low that “better” can’t possibly be too much of an ask, but I don’t want to presume anything.

According to the breast cancer handbook I was given at the start of 2020, I statistically have a 15% chance of living five years.
I try not to dwell on this statistic because why?
But may I give you some patented Cancer Lady advice?
Don’t go looking for death, but it’s trailing us all.
You can dwell on this fact and wring your hands and let it ruin every part of every day, or you can just get over it and cheer the fuck up because you only get one fucking spin on this gorgeous, disastrous, wobbly fucking planet.
But sometimes I think about the statistic as a dare,
like “try me, motherfucker.”
And I kind of feel that way about 2021.
Maybe we all do.
We’re bloodied and black eyed and exhausted,
and we just wish a motherfucker would.

Right now, I’m into sunlight.
The sunlight in Tucson, every hour of the day,
is worth noting and out here — with the javelinas, snakes, and saguaros
— I can understand why artists like O’Keefe were drawn (no pun intended, and hopefully none was taken) to the region.

Describing how the light strikes mountains and trees and cacti down here
is difficult, a fun challenge for a writer.
I’m still developing a proper vocabulary to describe the Tucson light.

You really just have to see it.

Maybe in 2021, some of you will visit
and see for yourself and tell me what words you might use
to describe the light from the sun and the stars.