Bread and Bread

1. rooms and wings On Thanksgiving night, AK, her sister and I went to see Room in a nearly empty theater in Irvine while AK’s mom rocked Dash and put him to bed in his pack-n-play. I read and loved the book years ago, and for the most part, the movie delivered a similar mix of beauty, suspense and underlying terror. If you don’t know the story, it’s this: Five-year-old Jack lives with his mother in Room, which (we learn by reading between the lines of his narration) is actually a homemade bunker built by the man who kidnapped, raped and impregnated his mom. Employing a miraculous mix of creativity and fierce determination, she’s protected him from the ugliness of their situation and created a fairly normal childhood for him. They exercise and take vitamins. They do crafts and watch TV. She tells him stories—one is the story of Samson, whose strength resides in his hair.* Jack’s has never been cut. Egg Snake: the fun craft that is also a tally of how long you've been...

1. no one is watching Amy was in town last weekend, and it was so nice, so easy to pick up where we left off, in the way of old friends. At one point, AK said something about my anxiety. The other day, she’d mentioned how poorly I had handled the uncertainty of apartment-hunting five years ago, and I’d balked. Did she really think I was still that person? Yes and no, she said. Now, I said, “I’m really much less anxious now. I reserve my anxiety for like two things.” Amy called me out: “Are you less anxious, or do you just distribute your anxiety differently?” Some people talk about the fearlessness cancer creates in its near-victims. It’s true that I am acutely aware of all the things that won’t kill me, and am accordingly blasé, maybe even too much so: losing my job, writing a story no one likes, offending someone, disappointing someone, not making the bed in the morning. But the fine print in this fearlessness contract—at least for me—states that in lieu of worry...

When my hair first started falling out in clumps at Trader Joe’s last week, I had all kinds of angry thoughts. People who get prophylactic surgery never have to deal with this shit. Chopping off your tits isn’t nothing, but it’s not cancer. And Fucking chemo. It’s all, “The disease you have is SO BAD WE HAVE TO POISON YOU; IT’S WORSE THAN POISON!” And I want to shove my balding head in the face of anyone who thinks I’m just an overly emotional drama queen who can’t deal with life. I don’t know if anyone actually thinks I’m an overly emotional drama queen who can’t deal with life. But my superego definitely thinks that, and over the years it has worn the faces of various people.   It seemed too soon to declare the ChemoCap a success or a failure. One day, I’d been able to tug gently at a handful of hair, and it stayed in my head. The next, it was in my hand. The fact that my life could change so quickly and concretely without notice or consent was alarming. I know that’s t...