#ive contracted the brain worms

[luthiest]

12.22.24

in other news:

i got a role as an extra in a movie for the first time in my life and got to spend 3 days shooting in a small room w some ppl ive been watching on screen since childhood—absolutely crazy;

ive been doing some vintage modeling on the side and my payment (by choice) is just the most amazing vintage pieces—very exciting for me personally;

got back into tea now that the weather has turned;

saw queer (2024) this week and i have not been able to think of anything else since. seriously, go watch that movie. acting, costuming, visuals, score, storytelling, all 10/10.

🎧 : sui ghiacciai - verdena

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[ace-fender-bender]

[hertwood]

dts s5 e6-8

e6: -having flashbacks of having to defend oscar to my mom for this why does the show try to lean into otmar's perspective so heavily GROSS -nah im full tinhatting i do not remember this whole bit where everyone hypes up oscar in interview before he has his lil chat with mark netflix u slimey lil bitches -oh if i was here when this news broke summer break 2022. i would've been inconsolable. i'm sure it was nuts, ballistic. maybe it was good i wasnt there. idk if i could've handled it akldkfjadslkfjasdkfj -lando saying "i already am (leading the team)" was not that rude it was just the TRUTH sorry -daniel speaking italian is so important actually -"ive been in this sport for 25 years i know what im doing" king that only makes the fumble THAT much more embarrassing COME ON -otmar talking abt how well oscar took all the shit we offered aren't we owed a contract? reminds me of timeshare schemes like actually just u paid for xyz if you dont have a contract in place he doesnt owe u anything maybe do contracts better next time :) -unfortunately zak brown is right!! its a pr disaster is the 5 million worth it!!! and they didnt even get the 5 mil!!! how do lose ur job speedrun masterclass here!! -i do wonder how much netflix inflated daniel's chances for the alpine seat, bc from what i've heard it wasnt really in the conversation. idk i wasnt there but it would make sense for netflix to lean heavily into this narrative -did not realize liam was sitting Right There when pierre was askin abt the gossip aldfjaslkfjaksjdf -the way how in season 1 its like NO DANIEL DON"T LEAVE RED BULL i feel the same way abt pierre going to alpine. like ofc it made perfect sense at the time and you cant fault him for it but like no babygirl its bouta implode PLEASE -rip all the tiktok edits that were muted in the umg purge that paired "good luck to oscar" with "if a man talks shit then i owe him nothing." thank u taylor couldn't have said it better myself -"do you regret anything that's happened?" "um. no :)" U TELL EM BABY

e7: -i'm sorry but geri seemingly getting boiling water from a tap to make tea is so fucking insane rich person cursed -was originally gonna include this funny shot of christian standing looking out a balcony like sharpay evans in high school musical in my s5 gifset but due to recent events i will not :) -i just think. that including this whole bit abt how much checo loves his family in the same episode as the monaco gp where he allegedly cheated on his wife was a CHOICE. interesting. -lewis's monaco 2022 outfit is one of his best outfits ever. its so iconic 2 me -HI ALEX -so many cinematic parallels to discuss. s1 max putting it in the wall in practice and ruining his race to prove he was faster than daniel. known parallels to brocedes ALLEGEDLY trying to sabotage eachother by crashing in that corner in monaco. hmm hmm hmm. much to think -im sorry the sainz collision is just so goofy. i remember watching the replay of this quali and being bamboozled. befuddled. deeply amused. what a stupid fucking sport -'for fucks sa-........okay this is typical monaco isnt it" MAX GETS IT -i honestly dont mind wet monaco races just bc by nature of the track its on average slower therefore less dangerous. i'll take a wet monaco over a wet spa any damn day -ferrari's double pit fuck up is PEAK embarassing ferrari strats. like to do a bad strat is one thing but to just mess up the strat ur trying to do. peak biblically cursed charles leclerc moment

e8: -god i wish i got more into yukierre. i see the appeal. unfortunately they just dont give me brain worms -many thoughts. um i think focusing on yuki's temper is just. unfair. like sure he should work on it but thats an issue with many young drivers its not a unique failure on his part -i have given thoughts on japan '22 before i'm not rly gonna rehash but i really wish the didn't gloss over it on dts. i think it was an important moment in the sport to have a big conversation abt rain safety. -oh this nyck supercut is gonna be painful knowing where it goes :/ -god remember when ppl thought nyck was gonna lead the team? leave yuki in the dust? even /i/ had him above yuki in my preseason predictions isnt that insane? -"im happy, i'll take that, that you'll miss me at least 2 or 3 minutes" god forgot the most romcom ass shit since sebchals we'll start by holding hands -nando n lance having this crazy crash and now a year later they're fucking on the reg. happy 4 them

[apaleflame]

probably my least favoruite ship trope of all time is “angry, agressive, and intimitating guy who’s an unbearable asshole to eveyone except his wife, and is only slightly nicer while she’s around”

[seek-its-opposite]

folie imposée | wc: 1410 | ao3

prompt from @o6666666​: 31. I found you grasping to hold onto me

i.

When she fires at the shape climbing the wall she thinks, fumbling for something normal, of how Mulder has always had a gift for shadow puppets. But Mulder’s hands are tied.

This isn’t exactly right, if she’s being honest. She only thinks of the shadow puppets later, driving him home as he sleeps in the passenger seat. She is only a scientist when her gun is in its holster.

So: When she fires at the shape climbing the wall what she really thinks is He was right, which sounds suspiciously like Of course, which is less a conscious thought than a feeling. Like the click of the right prescription in an eye exam. Like seeing a zombie behind a hospital desk.

“Scully,” Mulder rasps. “Get away from the window.”

“It’s gone, Mulder.”

“Just get back.”

He’s straining, struggling against his restraints to reach her. She unhooks the belt across his chest and he grasps for her, pulling at the straps around his wrists. When she takes his arm in her hands his skin burns hot and pink, rubbed raw by cheap canvas.

She could play his scrapes on a turntable and the vinyl would sing a slow tragedy, a myth reborn in jazz. Cassandra the cursed prophet, reincarnated as a boy who believes in aliens.

She loosens the strap and he slips his hand out, grabbing her cheek. “Did it get you?”

“No,” she says, but she leans closer anyway, until her nose is inches from his, and lets him look into her eyes. He wraps fevered fingers around the back of her neck, brushing back her hair.

“No Alaskan ice worms, either,” she breathes.

He smiles. Mulder, with his split lip and bruised chin.

She crosses to the other side of the bed and frees his other hand, the swollen knuckles that should really still be taped. She should put his hand back on ice, her cursed boy. She should lock him away, and herself with him.

“Scully—” he starts.

“Hang on.” She pushes him forward by the shoulder and studies the back of his neck. He waits.

The skin is unbroken. His brain, his fine brain—of course.

In the car she will think of shadow puppets, of how good he is at projecting a story in the dark. Of how that’s not, exactly, what happened here.

“Where are your clothes?”

He points. “Drawer.”

She retrieves his suit, so artlessly folded, and sets it on the bed.

“I’ll close this curtain so you can change,” she says. “I’ll be right here. But you should hurry.”

Mulder nods and starts to stand. He’s barely on his feet for a second before he blinks and tumbles back onto the bed.

She stops drawing the curtain. “Mulder?”

“Dizzy,” he says, screwing his eyes shut. “She gave me something. Nurse Zombie.”

She touches his forehead and he opens his eyes to study her thumb. No fever. She checks his chart.

“Just a sedative,” she confirms. “Enough to discredit you.”

“Why?” He bunches the sheet in his hand. “They didn’t think I’d be alive by morning.”

Get him out of here. It’s primal: feeling, not thought. Get out, get him out.

She kneels on cold linoleum to slip his socks onto his feet and tie his shoes. She tucks Mulder’s wrinkled suit under her left elbow, bends down, and fits her right arm around his back.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

Mulder leans on her, stumbling into the hallway in his G-man shoes and hospital-issued scrubs.

“This is against protocol,” the nurse says from behind the desk, with a robotic voice and color in her cheeks. I saw her face, Scully reminds herself. I saw it.

She keeps walking, dragging Mulder along with her. They stop for no one.

ii.

Folie imposée: a sub-classification of folie à deux in which a dominant person (known as the ‘primary,’ ‘inducer,’ or ‘principal’) initially forms a delusional belief and imposes it on another person or persons (the 'secondary,’ 'acceptor,’ or 'associate’), with the assumption that the secondary person might not have become deluded if left to their own devices.

Which is to say that she probably would not have shot at a monster on a patient’s wall had she chosen to practice medicine. 

iii.

She drives him to her place, tucks him into her bed. When she takes off his shoes she remembers being in Catechism, practicing how Mary poured perfume on Jesus’ feet.

Is it worship or penance, what she has with him? Her primary. Her inducer.

She’s stuck on this: that she wouldn’t do one autopsy, and it almost killed him.

(She would have done Mulder’s autopsy. She would have sewn him up, left the morgue, walked to her mother’s. Would have left the morgue and walked until she bled. Wouldn’t have left. Would have sewn herself up inside him.)

But she wouldn’t cut into Backus, couldn’t give credence to Lambert’s delusions without admitting Mulder shared them. Too soon after almost starting a national security incident to justify her faith in her partner. Keep it professional, Agent Scully. Sweep it under the rug, free him from a hostage situation, take him home. Take off his shoes. No, no.

iv.

The first documented case of folie à deux, in 19th-century France, involved a young married couple with a persecution complex. They believed people were breaking into their home and wearing their shoes.

v.

Mulder gasps awake in Scully’s bed, knows it’s her bed before he opens his eyes. Light from the street lamp outside cuts across the rug. A grayscale nightmare crackles to static at the edge of his vision.

He kicks his way out of the sheets and finds his wrists are doctored, wrapped in loose bandages and greasy with ointment. Scully. He pictures her balanced on the edge of the mattress with his hand in hers. What has he done to her?

You have to believe me, he said, and the universe finished the sentence: or I’ll die. Dress my wounds forever and ever amen, Scully, it’s in your contract.

There’s a drawer in her dresser with an extra overnight bag, his bag, tucked into one side. He tears off the scrubs and changes into sweatpants.

In the living room he can barely make out Scully, curled up on the couch under a blanket with the Pincus file spread across her hip. He’s considering whether to wake her, to offer the bed for the rest of the night, when he collides with a vase on a side table.

Scully jolts, fumbling for her gun.

“It’s me,” he hisses, palms up. “It’s me.”

“Mulder?” She switches on a lamp. “What time is it?”

It’s 5:35. They both squint at the clock, question answered.

“Are you okay?” she asks. He nods dully. He’s an escapee of the psych ward, marked for death by a rogue monster and his undead army, and possibly unemployed. He’s fine.

When he doesn’t elaborate, she shakes her head and laughs the ghost of a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I was just thinking. Hiding in the light.”

He waits, expectant. She bites her lip.

“Coffee?” she asks.

And he nods again, like she’s pumping air into his lungs.

vi.

She leans against the kitchen counter in the orange glow of the early dawn, watching the coffee drip into the pot. He sits at the table, a plain turquoise mug in his hands. They wait.

“Are these the same grounds you got in Maine?” he asks.

She nods, proudly. She says, “I’m rationing.”

“Oh,” he remembers. “Thanks for the, um—” He motions at his wrist, spinning his finger around it like a bandage.

“They’re not too tight?”

“Just right, Goldilocks,” he declares with a flourish. “I’ll be all healed up by the time they slap the cuffs on me.”

Scully frowns. “Mulder, for what? The hospital couldn’t hold you. That nurse is out of this time zone by now, along with everyone else in Pincus’ orbit.”

“The Bureau, then.”

“I have a meeting with Skinner this morning.” She straightens her shoulders. “You’ll be found fit for duty.”

“What are you going to tell him?” he asks.

She studies her mug, tracing the rim with her fingernail. “I don’t know.”

The red light on the coffee pot blinks. The rising sun lands directly on her face.

“Scully?” he risks. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

She looks at him, lips parted. The room ignites like it’s been lit from within.

“Scully?”

“I saw what you saw.”

[minervacasterly]

Final verdict on Queen Elizabeth I of England from Dr. Lucy Worsley in the epic conclusion of the "Secrets of the Six Wives":

“In the end the Tudor Dynasty was secured by a woman.”

While Lucy Worsley’s documentary ends with a note of hope, I can’t help but disagree when she states that in spite of Henry’s quest to secure the Tudor Dynasty through a male heir, that it was a daughter who did, and that it was his daughters who became notorious. This is true, to some extent. Queens Mary I and Elizabeth I of England have become more famous than their half-brother, the last Tudor King, Edward VI, but a lot of it has to do with their gender. It was very rare to see a female King succeed, let alone someone who was technically, still a bastard. Mary Tudor legitimized her parents’ marriage, opening a can of worms, implying that her father, England’s jolly good King Hall made a mistake when he set her mother aside in favor of Anne Boleyn. God doesn’t make mistakes -that is the Christian way of thinking, be it Catholic or Protestant. Implying that the King made a mistake, a man who is supposed to be God’s representative on Earth, means that either Henry was an impostor who lied to his people, or that God is imperfect. Mary used her religion as her father used his, to legitimize her claim, and justify her actions. Elizabeth I was no different, albeit she took a more pragmatic approach, being not too Protestant and nor too sympathetic of Catholics. When Elizabeth I became Queen, like her mother she had the “it” factor. She was young, perhaps not beautiful, but certainly attractive, and a trend-setter. Like Dr. Worsley states early on in the documentary, it was through her last stepmother, that Elizabeth learned how to make an impression, not just through her image, but through her intellect. As the old saying goes “brains over muscle”. Elizabeth is the living proof that knowledge is power, especially when you know how to use it.

As for being the greatest monarch in English history, that is more of an opinion. To many Victorian fans, it was Queen Victoria who was the greatest monarch that ever lived, to others, it was King Alfred, and to those who have a penchant for the dramatic and ask what-if, they say that had he been given the chance, it would have been her half-brother, Edward VI, England’s first true Protestant King. To the latter I can’t help but shake my head as well, because when we are dealing with what-ifs, we can never say what would have happened because we simply can’t know. Unless we have a time-machine, or a TARDIS, we have nothing but our imaginations to run wild with endless possibilities. What we do know is that when it comes to judging Kings or Queens, everything is subjective. We can’t say with a straight face that this monarch is the best that ever lived in her part of the globe, without considering various factors, such as propaganda which goes hand in hand with the religious climate of the time. Elizabeth I helped solidify the hold of the Anglican Church over England and the rest of the Isles, as well as that of the Evangelical branch in Scotland, which helped her against her neighboring rival and cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. Spain’s arrogance and animosity with fellow Catholic nations, was another thing that helped Elizabeth stay in power (longer than anyone could have anticipated), not to mention that she knew how to use her unmarried status as a symbol of complete devotion to her people, and be seen as a substitute to the Virgin Mary, whose cult had been popular in England for ages.

When it comes to comparing her to other monarchs, one must proceed with caution. Queen Elizabeth faced different challenges than Alfred the Great of Wessex, Cnut, Edward the Confessor, Henry II, Edward I, Edward III, Henry V, Edward IV, Henry VII, faced. How would she have reacted if she were in their shoes, or they were on hers, we will never know. But each of these celebrated monarchs, as the Virgin Queen, are special in their own way. There is also a faction who will say that Elizabeth I is overrated and that Dr. Worsley’s comments are quite simplistic. To this faction, I say that they are right. When it comes to the Tudors, there are so many myths and legends that the line between fact and fiction gets blurred to the point that fiction becomes the new history. But even when Elizabeth is seen as a goddess supreme, no one can’t deny the contributions she made to her country, or how politically astute she was, to manage to stay in power all those years and surviving countless plots against her. She also knew how to manage most of her councilors. Sometimes they had their way, much to her ire, and sometimes she got hers. Elizabeth also knew how to play the game of politics really well. In spite of being a bit of a drama queen at times, she didn’t hesitate to abandon her pride and look for allies elsewhere. Thankfully, unlike her father, she never had to do with a marriage contract. Some didn’t like her decisions, and thought she should be more Evangelical, and not do business with people that were considered the enemies of Christianity, but to Elizabeth, this was not a matter of who was right or wrong, it was a matter of survival. If her subjects wanted to push for a stauncher Protestant regime, the only way they were going to keep doing that is by keeping Elizabeth safe, and if that meant doing deals with people who were considered unsavory, then so be it. That is the Elizabeth that we all love to read about, not the larger-than-life figure who becomes a religious icon for no reason other than her gender. Elizabeth wanted to be taken seriously, regardless of her sex. But the problem with many fans, is that they are unwilling to see these people as other than heroes or villains, because they feel more comfortable with their historical figures -especially women- being perfect. To paraphrase what Lucy Worsley said at the beginning of the series, it is simple to turn human beings into one-dimensional characters, it is even better, to see them as they were. Flawed, imperfect, human.

[the-connection]

It started while I was on a Hawaiian vacation in May. I judged I’d just tweaked my back promoting a poolside lounge chair. Back home, my back aching grew severe, and I started observing gut ache in my legs. For eight epoches I could just slither around the house. My wife and two daughters nicknamed me “the worm.” At 45, I’m in pretty good shape--avid cyclist, runner, weightlifter, yoga lover with a resting pulsation in the 50 s.

So it was weird when my primary care doctor threw me on a concoction of sting assassins, gut blockers, and cortisone shots. I even tried acupuncture. But as my back began to improve in late June, I started to feel off. Sick to my stomach. Weak. Couldn’t sleep. I lost more than 10 pounds. But I chalked this up to a few months of too much Vicodin after a lifetime of anticipating two Advil was excessive. My physician articulated I was fit and healthy and that there was no need to run any blood tests. He speculated aloud if this was all in my head.

It wasn’t like exertion was driving me crazy. Just the opposite. As the CEO of the startup Mighty AI in Seattle, I was on a roll and having a explosion. Our fellowship, which produces data to train artificial intelligence for self-driving gondolas and other lotions, was racking up new purchasers, constructing brand-new capabilities, shipping better software, and drumming the event. We were coming chatter. WIRED and The Financial Times wrote about us. There was a feeling that our growing unit could do anything it is imperative to. Morale was high-pitched, and our corporation was still small-scale enough -- 45 people or so--that I could chitchat with anybody at work about real things in life besides work.

Unfortunately, my nonwork life was get all too real. Typically I’m pretty good at unplugging from stress. When I’m experiencing down or the shit is hitting the supporter at the part, I unroll by hanging with my bride, Amy, and our daughters, Anna, 14, and Elsie, 11. I’ll play some music or go for a bicycle ride.

But that stopped making this summer. At the bureau I appeared guilty for not putting in 100 percent attempt. At home--well, I was a insect! After nearly a month of feeling unpleasant despite my back getting better and being off all remedies, I touch a wall. On July 26, a Wednesday, I finished my day’s gathers and drove myself to the least busy ER I know of--the one at Swedish Medical Center in the Issaquah Highlands, 20 miles east of downtown.

A couple hours later I announced Amy and asked her to join me. They’d previously done a assortment of tests and ruled out the obvious--urinary tract infection, epidural abscess--and were sort of grasping at straw. Over the phone, I requested Amy, who is a clinical psychologist, if she could think up anything else I should tell the doctors. “Have you told them about the darknes sweats? ” she requested, her belly settle. The look on the ER doc’s face when I overtook that on should have been my first clue.( Night sweats are a symptom of some early cancers .) They described more blood and did a CT scan.

About an hour eventually, a doctor who specializes in hospital admissions affiliated the ER doc to report on their findings. The ensuing representation is seared into my brain. He interposed himself to Amy and me so awkwardly that we could not understand him. I gently interrupted his prepared remarks to ask his refer, hoping this might set him at ease.

It didn’t. He went on to explain that I had countless tumors in my liver, pancreas, and chest. In add-on, he explained that I had quite a few blood clots, including in my heart and lungs. “What is' many’ tumors? ” I invited. He searched demolished, saying they stopped weigh after 10. I thought he might cry, and then he started in with some absurdity about how maybe it was all just bad evaluations, or perhaps I had a rare water-borne pest illnes. Amy inaugurated exclaiming, hard. I went into speechless jolt and simply tried to get this chap to shut up and leave.

Bencke and his wife, Amy Mezulis.

Kyle Johnson for WIRED

The next few hours were a blur of tests and procedures. They finally stopped protruding and prodding me at around 2 am. It’s kind of hopeless to explain how I find, let alone to continue efforts to share how Amy seemed. Neither of us slept that night. With intruders gone, I was finally able to cry. I knew I couldn’t fully understand it all. But the thought of breaking the story to Anna and Elsie procreated it all too real. Anna is tough--stoic, introspective, meticulous, deep-keeled. But still, she’s 14. Elsie is our little angel from sky. She’s bubbly, extroverted, universally adored, unusually empathetic, and sensitive. I simply couldn’t imagine her taking the report, let alone growing up without her daddy.

My head was rotating. Think of Amy produced fresh sobbings to my hearts because she and I have worked so hard to raise a family while pursuing two bold business. We had predicted one another that in a few years, when the girls foreman off to college, we’d cultivate less and walk more. Amy didn’t deserve to lose those daydreams, or her attendant, just as we were on the brink. Then I thought of my moms and pops. My mummy would crack. She lost her youngest son, Joshuah Paul, to a heroin overdose eight years ago. I screamed and exclaimed, and so did Amy.

Thursday we were right back at it. They had a lot to do--classify the cancer, measure its progress, propose management. They took a biopsy of one of the tumors on my liver. They surgically implanted a stent in my gall bladder, which immediately allayed my backed-up liver. The medical staff likewise looked for secondary impacts of the cancer. First among them was blood clots. A couple doctors examined my legs and replied, “Slim to zero fortune you have clots in your legs--they look too healthy. But let’s check.” A few hours later, bad news: My left leg had clots from my hip to my ankle, though thankfully not fully occlusive. My right leg had coagulates from knee to ankle.

We devoted often of Thursday waiting for the pathology report, representing a peculiar mental game trying to convince ourselves it was anything but pancreatic cancer. We’re not dumb--we could see how the MDs glanced away when scheduling alternatives and could hear how they demurred when discussing potentials. Maybe "its been" lymphoma--there were protrude lymph nodes. Perhaps it was colon cancer--that’s treatable, right? But little did we know that the official diagnosis would be the least of our concerns that day.

When the clock impressed 10 pm Thursday night, I passed out. I’d spoken with some of our friend during the day, but it was a bit awkward. What was I supposed to tell them? “Hey, I’m in research hospitals. I have cancer. Not sure what category. Oh, and a cluster of clots. But at least I can urinate! ” I’d shunned announcing my mama back. She’d phoned and texted about 1,000 times. I was certainly not ready to speak with her. I needed a full plan.

On Friday the docs woke me with an dire problem: They had noted a blood clot the dimensions of the a Ping-Pong ball in my heart’s right ventricle. If it separated loose, I would die instant, whether I was in an ER or my basement. To realize topics worse, they showed me an image of the coagulate, and it was precariously wiggling on an already-loose attachment. Each period my center outdo, the ticking ticking bomb swayed precariously. The lump was too big to suck out with a vacuum-clean, too risky to slice and remove bit-by-bit, and too big to remove from the side by divulging open a few ribs. Nope, removing it was urgent and would require cracking my sternum. Today.

Events were happening at a dizzying pace. Clearly I needed to start doing some calls--to renounce my character as Mighty AI CEO, to connect with my momma and other immediate family members, to alert more of my closest pals. It was around 9:10 Friday morning. Mighty AI’s weekly functionings meeting "wouldve been" getting started at 10:15, so I had a lot of calls to make.

I phoned our members of the security council one at a time, sharing the story to those used I contacted. Each of them was supportive and encouraged me to take a leave of absence to focus on getting healthful. I asked for and went full support efforts to refer our benefactor and CTO, Daryn Nakhuda, as Interim CEO. That made about 11 hours. At 9:21 I announced Daryn to share the report and ask if he were willing to serve as interim CEO. He was perfectly poised, encouraging, and ready to step up. I scheduled a 9:35 all-hands video meeting.

Why an all pass? Well, this was obviously large-scale report, and I wanted everyone to hear it all at once. I wanted to share it raw and to project confidence, anguish, and adore. Why video? Well, I acknowledge I regretted that pick a smidge when I watched myself in a thumbnail on my laptop screen with a infirmary night-robe, an open weave at my neck where they’d fished in the stent, and limbs connected to various IVs and beeping monitors.

I hadn’t practised, and I don’t recollect exactly what I announced. But here’s the gist of what I recall :P TAGEND

Hey folks, many of you are familiar I haven’t been seeming well for various weeks. Well, I checked myself into the hospital a marry nights ago, assuming they’d sounds a bad bladder illnes or something. Regrettably, as it is about to change, I have cancer. It looks like it’s metastatic, Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I have extensive tumors in my liver, pancreas, and chest and quite a few blood clots. The worst of these may require immediate open-heart surgery to address the possibility that a large clot in my heart could cause instant death without warning.

Obviously I enjoy our company and our unit. We have created something really special now at Mighty. Just look at our recent account contract, having zero late deliverables, and flourishing our unit with people who will lend diversity. No mistrust in my spirit we will all looked at on these professional years as best available in "peoples lives", the age when we will have played a significant role in altering transportation.

I’ve ever thought of my job as your servant. Now it’s day for me to take a leave of absence were concentrated in my state. Effective instantly, Daryn is our CEO. Please proved him the respect and aid we all know he deserves. Each of us was already stepping up in new ways as we flourished. This just got all the more real for Daryn and pretty much everybody else, too.

I gotta be honest, my prognosis isn’t immense. So far, medical doctors with whom I’ve spoken have said my ailment is quite advanced, terminal, fatal. Don’t worry, I’ll be get brand-new physicians. I’ll be offline, but that will make it all the sweeter to come back when I’m ready and be amazed by all you will have accomplished. Thanks for "re giving me" the greatest honour of my professional life, and now go make me proud!

I could see lots of sobbings and scandalize. It was so sudden--for my squad and for me. The following Tuesday I phoned into the first council fulfill Daryn ran. Of direction he did immense. As we disbanded, everyone pleased me well. Every member of our board is a singular individual, and we’ve each bonded. So the goodbyes were psychological even wrap in the plated armor of venture capital. As we hung up, I realized I was surely no longer CEO. Took less than a week.

Bencke nurses up a picture of his family.

Kyle Johnson for WIRED

As it is about to change, they decided my liver and nature were too weak to risk surgery to remove that big lump. That led to three days of infirmary inertia as the oncologists and cardiologists suggested over what to do. On epoch five, Amy and a got a couple of MD friends started to question whether infirmary hell was in my best interest( one of the hospital’s endowments to me was pneumonia !), and on epoch six they got me checked out and sent home.

The clot is still here. I don’t feel better. My blood pressure is superb, my oxygen frequency 99 percent, and I have no chest pain. But in my memory I know it is there, and I know that necessitates it could detach at any second and kill me. I’ve always tried to live each day to its fullest, but this Damoclean time bomb spawns articulating goodnight to my girls all the more difficult.

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