Judging by the intensity of my cravings today, I’m running headlong into another mig— By the way, are you going to eat that last brownie?

(Some have hypothesized that cravings are part of prodrome, not a trigger for migraine headaches. And, you know, let’s just go with that because I’m not about to blame myself for lacking self control when it comes to that pan of brownies in the kitchen.)

So I figured I should do a quick rundown of what’s happening before I feel even less like writing an update. There’s some pretty migraine-ish weather in the forecast, so, hatched egg or not, I’m counting this damn chicken.

Most of the time between my last post and now was terrible, truth be told. The only things fueling me were sensory overload and PTSD. I wasn’t even aware of my sorry condition until things relented and suddenly my internal dialogue went from “everything hurts and I’m dying” to “still not dead, assholes!”

A few things helped break the spell: Someone on staff at my oncologist’s office said the word “stable” to me on Tuesday, I have hired cleaning help for the first time ever, and I am listening to music again.

Although they’re still awaiting an official July 2022 image comparison from a radiologist at St. Elizabeth’s, the written reports don’t indicate any significant changes in my brain tumor. That means I can continue not taking Temodar for the immediate future, and sweet cheezus is that ever a relief. I’ll have another MRI in a few months as they continue to monitor stuff.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Mom helped me set up an estimate with a local housekeeper, and she and another member of her crew came out for the first time this week. When I saw the place after, Dan and I kept swapping excited relief.

“They got the fingerprints off the microwave!”

“They vacuumed the cat scratcher!”

“They made Boomer’s bed!”

“Holy shit, they cleaned Boomer’s nose prints off the patio door!”

I have been trying not to drown for almost a decade now. I can no longer fathom how much two abled people can accomplish in an hour. If I didn’t have vague memories of life before cancer, I’d call what happened Tuesday a blessed miracle right up there with virgin birth and tumor-less MRIs.

During a meltdown a few days ago, I bought a cheap pair of headphones from Amazon. (Although I have a set of gamer cans that work fine, they’re too heavy to put on when stuff hurts.) And I told myself I wasn’t going to do anything but listen to music until my crisis time passed.

Coincidentally, if “Remember Us This Way” had been my first audio encounter instead of “Poker Face”, I’d have been a Lady Gaga fan ages ago.

Anyway, I spent days with my headphones on listening to everything from Fleetwood Mac to The Mavericks. (I don’t know Spanish, but en Español—this track in particular—is wonderful.) I hadn’t done so much music listening since my divorce, because I thought sounds hurt me post brain surgery. It turns out, however, my problem is with multiple senses and overstimulation. If I close my eyes and lie prone, I can listen without wanting to stab everything around me.

In summation, I’m okay but bracing for some intensified pain. Send Kinder Buenos.