#(which I like to think of as just my brain misfiring but that my aunt tells me is saints or demons trying to talk to me)

[heartshattering]

5 AM

Just me and my overactive mind facing the nighttime again 🙃

[lightsoutemptyhouse]

day #1 - for the record

something strange happened today, and i can’t seem to wrap my head around it. it feels like i’m trying to solve a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit, or worse, pieces that keep changing shape. i went to the kitchen for some water, thinking nothing of it, but the moment i stepped in, i knew something was off. the house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses into your ears and makes you feel like you’re underwater.

no one was in the living room, which made no sense. mum is always there—always. she’s either watching her shows, reading an article, or fiddling with one of her puzzles. it doesn’t matter what she’s doing; she’s just always there. but the room was empty, like she’d never existed.

i checked my sister’s room next. her door was open, lights off. that wasn’t strange in itself—she spends half her time in her room—but something told me she wasn’t in there. i peeked inside anyway. empty. same with mum’s room: door open, lights off, nothing but silence.

i wandered through the house, calling out for them, but my voice felt small, like the walls were swallowing it. i opened the bathroom door. the mirror caught the edge of my vision, but i didn’t look at it. i never do. the shower door was wide open, the toilet door too. the lights were on in there, but somehow it made the room feel darker, heavier. like it was waiting for something.

back in the kitchen, i grabbed an ice cube from the freezer and pressed it against my face. i don’t know why i did it. something inside me—some strange, urgent instinct—told me it would help, that it might make everything snap back into place. it didn’t.

then i heard it: the sound of a tv turning off. it came from down the hall. i looked and saw my aunt stepping out of her room, turning off the light as she closed her door. she didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything. just went about her business like nothing was wrong. but something was wrong. i could feel it crawling under my skin.

mum and my sister must’ve gone to bed, i told myself, though it didn’t make sense. it was only seven forty. they never go to bed that early.

i went back to my room. i don’t remember turning the lights off, but they were off when i got there. i used my hands to guide myself along the walls, the way you do when you’re half asleep. my fan was still running, so the power wasn’t out, but the air felt different—thicker.

i sat on my bed, staring at the door. that’s when the light in the hallway flickered on. a shadow moved, and then the door creaked open just enough for mum’s head to poke through.

“have you had a shower yet?” she asked.

her voice was hers, but it wasn’t. her eyes didn’t seem right either—too wide, too dark, like there was something behind them that shouldn’t be. i shook my head, too startled to speak. she nodded, then walked toward the laundry without turning on any lights.

i waited for her to come back past my door. waited and waited. but she never did.

finally, i got up and went to check the laundry. she wasn’t there. the room was empty. the house was silent again, except for the low hum of my fan in the distance.

it’s been hours now, and i still don’t know what happened. maybe i’m losing my mind. i haven’t been sleeping well, and this could all just be my brain playing tricks on me, some misfire between my body and mind. but i keep thinking about the mirror, how it felt like it was watching me, how it always feels like it’s watching me.

no, i’m not writing about that. this isn’t about the mirror. not yet.

i just needed to get this down. if nothing else happens, i’ll laugh about it later—chalk it up to exhaustion and paranoia. but if it’s not nothing, then maybe this will make sense to someone else.

—E.

[darkspace7]

Somehow, combining a few of my favourite tropes (throwing randos into situations way over their head and found family formation via feral vigilante youths and their reluctant but just as chaotic guardians) have somehow resulted in the following: the vicarious need for a phantom thief spiderman.

And who am I to ignore my gremlin-brain impulses?

Enter: Pitch Warker "The Glass Arachnia"

• So this spidey wasn't "bitten" in the traditional sense but was instead pricked by a cursed bejewled spider-broach thing. (Think something along the lines of that shitty mask from JoJo part 1.) Maybe this happens when they go on an errand to, idk, deliver lunch to their Uncle Mais -who works as a security guard at the "New Londattan Gallery of Art"- at the bequest of their Aunt Benita (who are local Aunt May/Uncle Ben variants but cisswaped/roleswaped for some reason?)

•Okay and so while on this normally easy errand somehow the two of them get caught up in a jewel heist with some mook trying to get at the "Glass Spider" (a polished silver & garnet broach with a diamond decal so clear that it looks like glass) and that's what gets this ball rolling.

•The spider jewel apperantly has some legendary curse associated with it. Something about how "the blood shed in the darkened night shall beholden to whims of the fanged court albeit at the cost of forever being ensnared upon their shadowy throne." And so during the scuffle our little wannabe hero tries wrestling back the jewel from the thief but gets scratched in the process. Getting blood on the diamond activates the curse (which for...plot reasons...can only have one bearer at a time?) In the confusion the crook tries takes aim at our hero only to be pulled back by Mais. The weapon misfires hitting the man in the process.

•As expected, Uncle Mais kicks it while the mook takes the opportunity to abscond with the now useless gem leaving a traumatized kid behind for the cops to (not) deal with. (Also because this is New Londhatten, where the only cure for bereavement to either lock yourself away in mourning clothes and drown yourself in absinthe & gin or find a sketchy religion) Aunt Benita kind of dips off for a while to (not) deal with being newly widowed, and so our newly cursed spiderling takes it upon themself to find out why this happened and (hopefully) avenge his relative's death. And what better way to catch a thief is to become a thief yourself and find a way lure out the other? Not the healthiest of coping methods but whatever, it's not like the police are gonna believe some kid coming up to them and spouting on about 'cursed gems' and magic abilities' right?

•I'm thinking of a fancy victorian gentleman thief/steampunk-themed "spider" suit. Something distictly regal and vaugely unearthly to fit with the more magical aspect of the origin as opposed to the usual techno-organic radioactive superhero sthick. Maybe a nice white suit with an gossimer capelett and attached hood. Coupled with an interwoven reddish-silver spiderlace design as the (bulletproof) vest. A spider-shaped broach (perhaps modeled after the "missing" Glass Spider?) Pinned to the neck, a dashing caravat matches sticky-palmed gloves (that somehow never manage to leave a smudge.) They compliment the ruby-tinted lenses of goggles set in that strange porciline mask. Oh and of course what gentleman is without his multi-purpose utility cane (now with retractable grappling hook!) Really, stark white clothes and clacky heels don't mean a thing when you can become the shadows themselves.~

•After not only attracting the attention of the New Londhatten police but managing to snag the attention of other interesting characters as well. Like: Lady Jamie Joan Jameson, a gossip reporter desperate for the next breaking scoop on that 'dastardly snitch-thief Glass Arachnia' with a fondness for that queer little bookbinder who always seem to have their head stuck in some little tinkering thing this or sewing project that. Or Mikelangleo "Mike" Jones, the lovestruck youth with a massive pining for the bespecticaled little bookbinder, whose dry (and often unintentional) sense of humour and keen intellect continuously sends his heart a-flutter. (Such a shame that said bookbinder is completly uninterested in Mike's advances & any and all attempts at disuading the other have -through a continuing comedy of errors only sought to bolster the himbo's impression of the other. A misunderstanding like this would probably easily be solved if there was just a moment of direct communication but when has a phantom thief been direct about anything?) Luckily Gunther Stetson, current owner of Bugel's Books, resident "guy-behind-the-curtain" (Pitch's words -not his-), and the only (self proclaimed) sane man, runs interference.

•And after a while of doing this thieving gig the cursed spiderling hits paydirt. It turns out the mook who stole the Glass Spider was actually part of a larger scheme by this shifty organization to steal away cursed gems and use their powers to do horrific and unspeakable things. Also, something about getting enough of them and it equal immortality. Somehow? I mean what kind of name is Sinistrum Orichalcium, anyway?

•Gunther: "So yeah, that's bad and someone reasonable and totally equiped for this should probably go stop them? Right? Right?? [Of course it has to be them, damn it all Pitch...This is only going to end poorly.] (He was right. Oh mercy, he was right. The youth watched as the body of his ((only)) friend slipped off the crystiline horn of the rhinocerous-beetle-that-was-once-a-man. A lunge forward, torn glove outstreched as the hand r e a c h e d o u t. Metalline claws dug in ((burning agony it hurt)) and rapidly drug his form up and away. He writhed against the restraint, razor blades that drew him back again and again as solid steel scales absorbed the blows. ((Let me go let me go please I can't reach!)) Cackling as groping fingers wriggled under the dirtied white of his mask and ripped it away ((his shield, his safety nonono!)) Recognition. "So this is what you really are little spider. Even now you try to bear your milkteeth." A derisive snort as a gnarled tendril cupped his face an mockery of care. "Poor little Pitch, who would've expected the simple bookboy to have such a storied life?" Everything he had worked for, all that he had sacrificed was now crumbling around him as the other went on, "Feh, you are as brittle as the pages of tomes you peddle and as fragile as the Glass you come from." A contemplative look and the porcaline shattered. "Now look at your ruins and weep.")

• When it rains it pours. Thanks to the combined efforts of the Sinisturm Orichalcum, the New Londhattan Task Force, and Lady Jameson, our hero is now not only wanted for numerous accounts of thievery, breaking & entry, and other assorted stuff related to his vigilantism but now Pitch Warker aka the Glass Arachnia is (erroneously but not that they'd take his word for it) on the list for no less than three counts of battery, assault, & murder. The Sinistrum and their allies basically have been given free access to all of the remaining gems that they need to complete their plan and the city itself. Oh and Mike hates him now. So he fine. He can totally handle this solo. Not like he's the reason his close loved ones are dead and a bunch of villains are going to become supervillains that he still somehow has to stop despite being public enemy number one. Yep. Totally.

•(Spoiler: He is not fine. The spiderling is very stressed and needs a break. Not his supposed villain origin story. Let our adhd boi rest.)

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

Anyway, would you imagine the madness that would be the Civil War (2006) Event if it was released today?

Like...

1- There is a major explosion wiping out a suburban, white picked american town in the midwest, explosion started right next to a school, caused by a team of C List superheroes literally attacking a group of B list Supervillains, who were having a barbecue there for some reason, just to get more ratings on their reality show rather than any heroic duty. Many people die, mostly kids due to the school, and we see the bloody aftermath. Even the Sentinels, compared to burning crosses in terms of racial sensitivity by Wolverine, help out to fish out people from the debris.

2- Because of this, major Anti Superhero Sentiments start sprouting up in the country. One of the victims’ mother (A major player in the event believe it or not) spits on Tony Stark’s face. The Human Torch gets lynched by some black stereotypes because he was allowed to go into a exclusive nightclub with a white girl due to his celebrity status and they weren’t, major protests start going trough the nation, all demanding SOMETHING to be done against those pesky superheroes, As monuments are being torn down and what not, as ALL superheroes, as a social class, at fault for what has happened there during the explosion.

3- This brings us to the Government Regulation Thing, THE Superhero Registration Program. Maria Hill, who wasn’t a Skrull Chaos Agent and has never been (It’s important you remember this), announces to Captain America that the... senate? chamber? Anyway, someone is going to approve this new law (Which, you know, isn’t law yet btw) that will require all superheroes to have their Identity revealed to the public and become paid government workers. They get a pension and health insurance and insurance for any collateral damage they cause as long as they do what they are told and do not step out of line.

You know, Normal, TOTALLY not fascist shit.

4- Anyway, Cap obviously is outraged by this, for “How Long until it will be Washington that tells us who the real villain is” (Which is, you know, SUPER RELEVANT), and claims will never sign up for any of this, which Maria Hill, who, again, is not a Undercover Skrull Chaos Agent, knew he was going to say so she tries to arrest him for breaking a law that isn’t a law yet, unleashing plenty of armed guards and a couple of attack helicopters on him. She fails, he runs away, and the other superheroes are presented with a choice.

CONFORM OR BE HUNTED DOWN LIKE DOGS.

5- If you think this was bad prepare for the real bad shit to start now, because you have to keep in mind this:

The registration side are the supposed good guys here. They are what the narrative consider to be the one who win at the end, whose ideals were better than Captain Fucking America’s. Keep this in mind as you read this:

6- The Major 3 players of the Registration Side are Tony Stark, Mister Fantastic and Hank Pym.

6A- Tony Stark is a war criminal. He tries to stage a terrorist attack on Independent Nation Atlantis, using a “Mind Controlled” Norman Osborn (More on this later) to pull the trigger, so he could both kill Namor and start war with the underwater kingdom, whose Non Namor Rulers will surely try to get revenge against the surface for such happenings, sell weapons during the ensuing war, AND unite the divided superhero community against a common enemy, in this case, Atlantis.

Tony Stark is also responsible for the Supervillain Rehabilitation Program, which is taking willing and unwilling supervillains alike and putting bombs in their brains, ready to blow up at a sign of disobedience, so to use as enforcers for the registration side. Many of those villains have a kill count on the double digits. Many of those villains where later deployed in hunt down and capture missions of Superheroes who had defected, superheroes they all had a hate boner for and loved nothing more but to beat up and potentially kill/maim. One of the fucking Hobgoblins was among them. BULLSEYE WAS FUCKING AMONG THEM.

He manipulated Spider-Man into revealing his identity to the world, something that caused major Bullshit to everyone involved, for, once Spider-Man realized what kind of bullshit he had signed up for and decided to go rogue, Tony first hacks the stark patented supersuit he gave him as a gift so it malfunctions, then sends 2 bloodthirsty supervillains armed to the teeth with explosives and with bombs in their brain to capture him and rough him up a little, then removes peter’s wife and aunt from the family protection/hostage program, which forces them to hide out in a crappy motel in fear that one day a supervillain discovers where they are and bombs them, which guess what is what fucking happens in the end since a sniper finds out they are there and shoots Aunt May, which is what ultimately leads to the worst story in comic book history ONE MORE (FUCKING) DAY.

6B- Reed “Mister Fantastic” Richards is presented by the narrative as emotionally distant and abusive to his wife. He will, with the help of Tony Stark and Hank Pym, create a mechanical clone of Thor, who was absent from earth at the time, with the sole purpose of crowd control and dispersion in the event of a superhero vs superhero fight.

Lethal Force is apparently authorized and approved, for The first mission he is deployed in, Clone-Thor, the clone of a bloody Norse god, ends up Killing Black Goliath, a black superhero, something not contested, in fact almost condoned by the narrative and the registration side, and both the reason why Spider-Man defects and a Hydra Scientist (Oh, yeah, they also conscript Hydra Scientists in the thing so tho create more bio weapons and shit) finds the reason why he considers those three his favorite superheroes.

Also Reed Richards is a McCarthy apologist. He talks about this one uncle of his, a artist, who was considered a communist and was put on trials for having left leaning, liberal views/just being a plain weird artist (I think he was also gay coded?), and he says how he mocked the question and the absurdity of the whole situation in particular and McCarthyism in general, which ultimately blacklists him from work and makes him die alone and without money, so Reed Fucking Richards of course said that the moral of that story is that “My uncle was wrong, If there is a law that might seem unjust, you shouldn’t be down to clown but you should just shut your mouth and keep going.”

The Fucker.

6C- Hank Pym starts a fucking child soldiers conscription program. Teen Superheroes discovered by shield will be captured and separated from their families, Identical Robotic Decoys put in their place to prevent the families from finding out, and will be conscripted into the registration program as child soldiers.

They will be given a usa army approved regiment of training, and will be soon deployed on real, life or death missions, either involving the capture of rogue superheroes or fighting “enemy” forces such as AIM or HYDRA, what the government seems more fit to fight at the time.

The Kids, for ages seemed to vary from 15 to 19, will be trained and encouraged to kill, especially if faced with faceless hydra goons as they blast down their aircraft in a dog fight in the skies. This will of course scar and traumatize the, again, 15 years old government sanctioned child FUCKING soldiers, but not as much as the alternative to this.

For, as it is shown, failure to comply with orders, as well as emotional instability due to being, you know, a 16 years old girl in stressful situations such as, you know, a guy turning into a giant spider in front of you, will cause the government to “terminate” your employment under them, which will result in them forcibly taking away your powers, most of whom you were born with, with invasive, unwilling, non sedated surgery on you, as it happens to a girl whose arm is a literal magic gun who had her, you know, magic arm cut off after she accidentally misfired and kills another of the kids watching from the, you know, not that safe watching room not even a glass mirror away from the training room.

No wonder the girl whose superpower is literally just “can make pretty clouds with her mind” is so eager to kill as many people the government as her to after being conscripted while she was just flying around on her cloud and has to witness... you know, all of this shit.

6C- Maria Hill, Director of Shield and, again, not a fucking Skrull Chaos Agent, starts hunting down unregistered superheroes. Any superhero that didn’t sign up the registration list at least on the exact midnight of the day the law is made law, will be hunted down and forcibly imprisoned without a due process.

This happens to Luke Cage, who, again, on the exact midnight the law is enforced, not a minute more, had his apartment swarmed up with cops in tactical gear ready to “arrest him” despite him doing nothing yet, all the while shooting around the, you know, predominantly black neighbor like they are the Simpsons’ Texan guy. His wife and newborn daughter are also hunted down, the two fleeing to Canada, a safe heaven for superheroes and their families in this time of crisis, for undefended families of superheroes become leverage the registration side can use against them to make them sign up, for at some point a superhero must have revealed his identity to another superhero, another superhero that will statistically be either on the registration side snitching on you, or, you know, a Undercover Skrull Chaos Agent, if not both.

Captured heroes are shipped off to a private prison owned by Tony Stark and his goons in the Negative Zone (Think hell, but more depressing), where they will be interned without, again, any semblance of due process, and will be fucking kept in torture pod of virtual reality for the entirety of their stay. They will not be allowed any contact with the other inmates, or even to feed, relieve or just wash themselves, everything will be done by the pods, so that they will be in eternal, perfect imprisonment until they “see the error of their ways”.

Somewhat worse than the Barry Allen’s private prison in the Flash, if only by just a little.

Some brain washing was also implied to happen.

7- Cap’s Side is, of course, against all of this, yet it will be Cap’s side to lose the civil war, for , when Captain America is pummeling Tony to the ground for everything that has been going on in the middle of a devastated time square, some REAL WORLD HEROES (You know, a cop, a nurse, a fireman, and so on), tackle Steve to the ground, blame HIM for everything wrong that has happened, and ask him to stop in his futile resistance.

Statistically Speaking, at least 2 of those people were a Skrull Chaos Agents BTW.

Steve “sees the error of his ways,” surrenders to the police, is about to be given a sham process (He gets one but fucking daredevil, a lawyer, doesn��t as he’s shipped off to Tony’s Hell Prison? I guess there is a upside on getting arrested by the program in front of witnesses that you cannot all silence) until Sharon Carter shoots him on the steps to the courtroom because he was being mind controlled by a undercover hydra hypnotist that might or might have not been conscripted by the “let’s conscript supervillain scientists in the registration program, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?” thing.

8- Also Hawkeye comes back to life for a bit and is immediately almost manipulated by Tony into taking the Captain America’s role after Steve's death, except this time working for the registration side against his friends, which he ALMOST accepts because he doesn't know what the fuck is going on yet but he trusts tony until he meets Hawkeye (The girl one) and Patriot during his first mission as Registration Cap who tell him “Duuuuude, Steve’s body isn’t even cold yet, what the fuck” which makes him go “Holy shit Tony, what the fuck?” and make him decide to abandon the shield and shit and lay low for a while.

9- Oh, yeah, also this happens:

(Recognize that journalist? Is the same journalist that gives Hydra Cap a interview about how inhumane Hydra was during their regime, the one he sends to the labor camps and mocks with “I’m sure you can complain about it on Twitter later.” That wasn’t just a dig at the (Justified, oh so justified) detractors of Hydra Cap on social medias, but also a dig at THIS. FUCKING. SCENE. THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY FOR ALL DAY TO COME, FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA IS OUT OF TOUCH WITH THE REAL AMERICA BECAUSE HE DOESN'T USE MY FUCKING SPACE).

10- What else what else... Oh, yeah, everyone favorite absolute monarch T’challa, King of Wakanda and Black Panther, married with X-Men’s Storm at the time, X-Man that, btw, have been pretty much neutral during this whole shitstorm due to, you know, the “genocide” they recently suffered by the hands and mystical powers of one Wanda Maximoff, both of whom have diplomatic immunity due to the, you know, status as the rulers of a hyper advanced nation who holds the cure for cancer among other things, has his wife taken hostage by the united states. They go to the united states on a joint diplomatic mission, and are promptly ambushed and kept grounded in the states, separated from each other, until at least Ororo signs the registration program, T’challa having to follow closely behind, and then they will be allowed to be let go.

Again, I can’t stress this enough, The United States try to strong arm 2 foreign rulers, one of whom a mutant, into signing up a domestic policy about domestic internal affairs of public security.

Because of course they do.

10- I think I forgot some minor shit happening like speedball’s entire arc or Wolverine’s revenge plan or the Latverian Caper, but I think the gist of WHY this bullshit would have blown up today is all here.

For you see, now, imagine all this shit all the implications, the crimes, the horrors and stuff...

Just Imagine, all this shit is going on... with a Secret Invasion of Skrull Chaos Agent coming soon to shake thing even more...

And the president of the united states, the one that, again, ultimately will decide who the REAL enemy is, where the real supervillain to fight is...

Is Donald Fucking Trump.

How long until the superhero child soldiers are tasked to guard the border I wonder...

[braindamageforbeginners]

A Moment of Introspection (or, Why Positive Thinking is Actually a Bad Thing)

Since starting the whole end-stage brain cancer thing, I’ve gotten a variety of messages from assorted friends and acquaintances wishing me well - it's quite heartwarming, actually - and, although it's universally well-intended, a significant percentage (about 20-40%, I'd estimate) have the glaring subtext, “Cheer up, for Chrissakes.” I appreciate that, for most people, that's intended as a sincerely well-meaning sentiment, but, uh, no; no thanks. I was never a cheery person, I'm unlikely to turn into one under current conditions. All of this reminded me of why I'm fastidiously documenting this whole process. We tend to see dying people as “the great other,” (believe me, we really do, you just don't experience it until you're on the wrong side of the equation), and that colors a great amount of my interactions - you can kind of simulate this experience, by spending a day where you don't discuss, or do, anything pertaining to a time frame after the next six months. It'll be easier for some of you than others.

The ClifNotes version of this rant is how to properly respond when you hear bad news about a friend or neighbor, and why positive thinking isn't such a good idea. We’ll tackle the second one first, because I'm a Star Wars fan.

When you develop a dangerous disease, you will be overwhelmed by many things, but the most annoying are people telling you to remain positive. This is a bad idea on many levels, not least of which because it could kill you. When I first found out about the latest tumor in July, I was told not to panic, that this was a fairly slow-growing tumor, and I had some time to deal with it. When my tumor was removed in November - that's about 4 months, for those keeping score - the tumor had leap-frogged from stage II to stage IV.  If I had freaked the fuck out the minute I heard the word “tumor” and had it removed immediately; I would be in a completely different diagnostic category, with a completely different prognosis and life expectancy. And that wasn't even positive thinking, that was just relying on well established medical facts and/or probability. So you can understand why, perhaps, I'm suspicious of positive thinking at the moment; it’s demonstrably dangerous to me. So, you'll forgive me for operating under the assumption that this will be my last Christmas. That may or may not be accurate, it's simply an inference based on current events (speaking of which, there's an excellent chance I’ll eventually lose my insurance if that despicable tax bill becomes law, which will result in blocking access to care, which will inevitably end in a sub-optimal result for me). I suppose you could take that the other way, and assume, “Well, the disease behaved unpredictably already, that could swing the other way, too,” but it's still not a bright idea to bet on a team on a losing streak. Also, I already beat the odds - for fifteen years. This is just the law of averages catching up to me.

We are also an outcomes-oriented society - no one’s about to show up and give me gold star for living 30-odd years as a decent, kind human being who never really achieved anything of import; it's unlikely I'll get credit for weathering this particular shitstorm with grace and dignity (BTW, dignity is the very first thing that gets jettisoned in these situations; I think I left any remaining scraps of that on the floor of the shower when I had to have a nurse physically support me throughout the entire shower/basic hygiene process). I should get credit for not strangling any of the nitwits who try to cheer me up the wrong way.

THE PROPER WAY TO CHEER ME UP: Tell me about your aunt who beat brain cancer (I’m actually being sincere). Maybe leave out that epilogue about her living a full three years past what the doctors expected; I'm not in a position to refuse any extra time, but I'm ambitiously hoping for more than five years. Call me crazy! Or, y’know, just treat me like a regular person who's in the middle of a bad divorce. I'm aware that my situation is much worse, but I can not escape the constant reminders that I'm in a really bad way (I'm taking very strange meds that give me insomnia and heartburn; I'm on the phone with my doctors, nurses, and insurance company every hour or two; I could go on), so it's nice to be treated as a person, and not a disease bound in human flesh. I love Oprah, I love Oscar Wilde, but until they're sitting in a waiting room next to a man with literally only half a face, please don't spout inspirational garbage unless you want to make it onto the “To Stab” list.

Speaking of being an outcome-oriented society; a great deal of my (and probably most other cancer patients’) dread and anxiety is based on the uncertainty of outcomes. We tend to be of the mind-set that our fear of an event is much worse than the event itself; and, normally, I'd agree with that sentiment. Except, at almost every single step in the diagnostic/discovery process, the outcome has not only been far worse than my worst fears, it's outstripped my doctors’ predictions. True, I have gotten slightly lucky in a few ways (the surgery went far better than expected, I do have a mutation that gives me a 40% chance of survival with conventional treatment, I'm in a drug trial that should improve those odds, and I might be able to get insurance next year), but even those all come with caveats and qualifications. And they're weighed against an uncertain future in which even death isn't the worst possible outcome (remember Two Face in the waiting room? Yeah, it's not likely to happen to me, but neither was stage IV brain cancer). So, you might understand why, with a future that's decidedly more S. King than B. Potter, even with the rosiest predictions (and not a whole lot of future, at that). The happiest baby rabbit photo in the world isn't going to improve those odds, so keep the motivational posters to yourself. If things are looking better in a few weeks, yeah, sure, I'll be cheerier, but I haven't even started treatment yet.

I realize that most of these misfires come from the human impulse to do something to help each other (again, knowing that people are just well-intentioned idiots has saved a few of those idiots from a much-needed eyeball gouging), and it just comes out wrong. I try to preface everything I write with the warning that I don't speak for all cancer patients, just me. Today, I'm going to abandon that stance and speak as Cancer Man (but not the cool, X-Files one), patron saint and mouthpiece for all patients with terrible afflictions, and give you, dear reader, the perfect response when you hear that unimaginable tragedy has struck someone you care about. I'm so confident in its efficacy, that it will work not only for cancer, but for almost all diseases, and, indeed, tragedy in general, from unexpected weight gain to a neighbor losing their child. However, before we get there, let's look at the very best, and very worst, reactions (there's only one of each, I won't hold you in suspense for too long).

So, far and away the best response to my situation came from a former boss in the biotech industry, who had heard of several promising clinical trials, and offering some advice about trial eligibility. I knew I was a decent employee, I didn't think I was that good.

Now, the very worst response - and the one I've possibly received the most - is, “"I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.” Or something similar. Usually this is whenever I bring up the odds of me making it five years (about 40%), because Americans don't understand how probability or basic math works (this also explains our economic policies). Fortunately, most people realize it's kind of a dickish thing to say, “I can completely empathize, because I am also mortal.” It took me a while to figure out the proper response to that, which is; “"I'm so glad you agree, let's play some Russian Roulette.” Once I break it down that way - that I'm in a life or death situation over which I have absolutely no control - most people back off.

Anyway, here's your go-to response whenever tragedy strikes someone you know; “"That's awful. I am so sorry, and I have no idea what to say. Is there anything I can do?” That will work for every unpleasant disease you can imagine, I'd wager my life on it (another phrase that used to mean something).

And the only person who's inquired - unprompted - about my emotional state was my radiation oncologist. She was sort of double-checking that I was depressed (or trying to figure out if the cancer was causing it, I'm not sure). Either way, the implication was the disease could be directly influencing my emotional state and/or outlook. If you're still having trouble understanding why I'm slightly upset, imagine having an alien parasite in your brain that can alter your very perception of reality - what we usually call our sanity - and knowing that, if science fails, things will get much, much worse, and eventually, you will die. That's not a problem if you're Kirk or McCoy, but let's say you're slowly becoming aware - like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern - that you're a nameless red shirt. BTW, if Spock doesn't synthesize an antidote in time, these dispatches are going to become very surreal as I descend into madness and pain.

Finally - and don't worry, I'm mostly done with self-pity - you'll have to be patient, I literally found out about all of this five weeks ago. It's all a little much to adjust to in less time than it takes to establish residency in most places. Hell, just for comparison, my chemo/radiation course is - minimally - six weeks. Which brings up my final point (hang in there, we’re almost done), why I'm writing these things. In our society, we tend to view dying people (or those in grave situations) as The Great Other. We want Morrie Schwartz, or we want sick people to shut up and go away (BTW, the feeling’s mutual on the other side of the fence, sick people just want you to give us morphine and let us die in peace). I have not heard of anyone undergoing this, uh, process, while maintaining their surliness and cowardice (and you would be, too, if you were only getting a few hours of sleep every night) - not that I'm dedicated to those traits, but they come naturally to me in crisis (or this particular crisis; I don't know what I'd be like if I was sleeping well and didn't have to call some specialist or billing department or coordinator every hour or so) - and I think future cancer patients should be assured that a bit (or a lot)(or even massive amounts) of griping and fear is fairly normal and has no real effect on the outcome (it doesn't, I haven't seen a study conclusively showing any correlation between attitude and patient outcomes). And this whole writing project will help me keep track of my efforts to find the world’s funniest cancer joke. It has to be out there, somewhere; I've been unable to shake the feeling that I'm somehow involved in some horrible, tasteless joke (and I've crunched the numbers; this whole thing is so statistically outlandish that finding out I am some sort of fictional character in an elaborate story about end-of-life issues would not be the most surprising (or upsetting) discovery I've made this month), and damned if I'm going to leave before figuring out the punchline (of course, I'm about to be damned, anyway; my mother described the radiation waiting room as “the line to cross the Styx”). And finally, I'm doing this because I still can; there may well come a time when I'm unable to write - a thought that scares me far worse than dying. And it may very well may happen; after all, we live in a universe rich in possibilities.

In conclusion, if you feel the need to cheer someone up, there are other cancer patients you can bother. Some of them are probably serene and wise, even (those are the patients with personal assistants to wade through the vast pile of BS that is the bureaucracy of the modern medical-industrial complex). If, on the other hand, you're interested in seeing how far down the rabbit hole goes, with a host who isn't afraid to ask, “This is really fucked up, right? This isn't just me, is it?” I'm your man. For good or bad, my life looks the way it does because I'm too lazy to pretend to be someone I'm not (well, that, and life-long neurological disease); and I'm certainly not going to work on that skill while simultaneously trying to survive what promises to be the very worst (possibly even the very last) two months of my life. Speaking of which...

UPDATE: I met with the researcher running the neurocognitive assessment trial, which is kind of fun (the neurocognitive tests are kind of like some sort of therapy for dementia patients (which, I suppose, could describe me soon enough); you get to draw things (sort of), you play word games (sort of), and you get to play with blocks (sort of)). And then I got to fill out some forms to assess my current neuropsychiatric state. I realize I use synonyms for “fear” a lot on this blog, but the questions on the psych form were deeply upsetting in their implications (”Have you had recent troubles articulating your thoughts or feelings?” YOU. MOTHERFUCKERS. Writing is the last thing I have any real control over; don't you dare take this from me). Good news; the researcher assured me that current radiation treatment is much less nuclear holocaust-y than old fashioned radiation treatment, and the goal of this study is to demonstrate just how much better it is for patient cognitive abilities. She was less happy about my constant pestering her about specifics (”Have I experienced balance problems in the last week? Yes, but since someone was sawing through my somatosensory lobe a month ago, I don't think it was a psychiatric issue.”), so she eventually told me to shut up and scribble any notes or caveats in the margins (I don't think anyone will be amused that, after I rated the statement “I am afraid of dying” (I very strongly agree with that statement, obviously), I wrote, “There is about a 60% chance I'll die in the next five years, it's not a fear, it's just basic math.” Still, it was reassuring when she told me that she does see most patients again at the three month follow-up, and that most of them are mostly-intact. And, in surprising news, I finally saw the psychooncologist; and she seemed remarkably empathetic and intelligent (I guess it's just the administrative staff that are cruel and incompetent). I guess I have adjustment disorder (no shit, Sherlock)(also, there's probably a few readers who saw that coming). But, bigger news, the antidepressant I was on is linked to anxiety, insomnia, and, wait for it... seizures. So, I will be transitioning to a less dangerous (for me, anyway) antidepressant over the next few weeks, so things might get a little odd around here during that time. She (the psychiatrist) also said something to mull over; (and I'm paraphrasing), “Any time you cut into the brain, you permanently change the neurochemistry. And we've done that to you three times since you were 17.” I also got a call from my original mad scientist oncologist in Northern California (or one of her Igors, anyway), reminding me that she wants an MRI a month after starting radiation, which is reassuring. I have no illusions about her investment in me; it makes for a much better case study if the patient lives longer, and I am a once-in-a-lifetime medical specimen (I don't mean that in a sleazy, “Welcome to the gun show” way; I once calculated that there are fewer than 250 people with similar medical histories... on planet Earth). Still, the more people who want me to live, and are in a position to help make that dream a reality, the better. Now for the bad news; the radiation department is still haggling with my insurance company, and that's holding up this whole process. However, they're expecting to hear back in a day or so, and, as Dad noted, the insurance company has been quite generous and almost-mammalian during this whole process. All I want for Christmas is chemo.