Recovery + Laughter + Spirituality + Relationships + Plant Medicine + Chronic Illness and Pain
Author: Jana Greene
I'm Jana and I write about the things that give me joy, help me cope, set me straight, and light my path. Recovery, relationships, spirituality, plant medicine, and assorted struggles and passions.
Get offended by poverty. Get offended by kids who cannot afford school lunch. Get offended by sick people who cannot afford medical care. I highly recommend following The New Evangelicals.
By: JANA GREENE
I am embarrassed for Christians, and I AM one. My precious faith has been hijacked by extremists and I am none too happy. Between the Trumpers and this nonsense, it’s barely recognizable as adherents who feed the poor, help the helpless, and minister GOOD NEWS for ALL. Stop it. Please just stop it. Please study up on cultures that are NOT your own.
The Olympics did not originate under Christianity. Every single thing on the planet is not based in Christianity. I can’t believe I have to say this, but every single thing from another culture is not demonic and against your beliefs. Stop with the persecution complex already, holy cow (cows are sacred in India, but it’s just an expression, not a jab at your faith. See how easy it is to not “holy-ize” everything?)
The Olympics is an event that began in Ancient Greece. The Greeks had their own mythology, which is what is portrayed in celebration of the games, which also originated in Greece. What you see as a drag show, the ancient Greeks saw as theater. What you see as… you know what? Nevermind. Closed minds don’t hear a thing. And that makes me sad for us all.
Listen, friends. I feel passionately too. But I am writing this as a simple observer, stepping back and noticing what is happening. And what’s happening is so ugly. Blessed be, and remember that you are a light worker in a dark world. Open doors for people, compliment a stranger, be sloppy generous with the love you put out in the universe, and I will too. And hopefully we can make a difference as we flounder through this dystopian nightmare. Amen?
Today it’s raining like God has something fierce, like God has something to get off his chest. A bone to pick with humanity. Not a sprinkle but a torrential downpour, and like everything else right now, it comes hard and heavy.
I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of “hard and heavy.” As I sit sipping coffee on the front porch of a little log cabin, I consider society and watching its apparent downfall. And I let my mind play pretend for a bit. I am a pioneer woman, hearty and fulfilled with the simplest of pleasures.
Never mind that there were no Airbnb’s on the “Oregon Trail,” (Blue Ridge highway?) only thoughts of sustenance and probable dysentery. Never mind that I would be long dead if that were the case, because childbirth proved nearly fatal for me bringing my two biological children into the world. I come from weak, generic- European stock. We are sickly, pale, and given to dying in childbirth.
But I consider my surroundings as if it were 1847 and I had arrived here by hiking on sturdy legs and enduring hardship, not by Honda Insight. There are berries in these woods probably, and the soil would be fertile for growing vegetables. There are deer for venison (I’m certainly not hunting and killing it – I’ll leave that to the menfolk) and other rodent-based meat – squirrel and rabbit, which I’m also not killing, but would eat if there was no Chick-fil-A nearby.
This is my first vacation since receiving a Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia diagnosis. It’s good medicine to sit in the woods and contemplate your fate, it turns out. I walk barefoot on the dewey grass. I hug the big oak tree that shades the cabin and thank it for its shade. I listen to Teddy Swims and old Van Morrison on the cabin porch, rocking and blissed out.
I literally stood outside in the pouring rain with my face skyward with the intention of screaming into the void, but ended up thanking him for showing up and washing away my attitude with his tears.
The air is God-breathed, my ears are filled with birdsong. And even though is it’s pouring rain; I am glad for it. I watch the clouds tuck the mountains in goodnight. I love a good tucking-in.
I think this property was a Christmas tree farm at some point. Frasier Firs line the property. I guess we were all something else at one time or another. Each phase subject to its own rejoicing; each phase subject to hardness and heaviness. I reckon the land groaned as it weathered changes, just as I do now.
Every journey we find ourselves on – whether involuntary or self-led – is too much at some point. Things are a little too much now. So I groan. Oh how I groan. Oy vey!
We are home from our long weekend getaway now. I’m trying to carry some of the contentment that came so easy in the mountains into today. Nature made an investment in me during he course of our mini-vacay, and I’m trying not to squander the peace it gifted me.
Turn off the news and quiet the weeping and gnashing of teeth long enough to remember that God is close to the broken-hearted.
I am sick, but I am surrounded by love – even in the suburbs where the air does not carry the scent of God’s breath. Even when I’m spiking a fever at the least opportune times, or angsty about the state of the world.
Pain is a constant companion, but I’ve found it is more effective to run a three-legged race with it than to deny it altogether.
It is a part of me, and hating it ultimately ends in hating myself. So, I walk with it daily, with it. Running with it ends up tripping me up. Go one day at a time – the same way I got through getting sober.
Now that I think of it, perhaps pain is like my conjoined twin; one that dislikes all the things I love. We have to compromise, or nothing gets done. At any rate, it’s here to stay, and that can be the hardest, heaviest thing of all. This might sound defeatist, but it’s just acceptance. And as long as there is still nature and hugs and the Spirit of God, I can accept it with some measure of grace. Even as this land groans.
I hope your hard and heavy era passes soon, and you can find some peace in this crazy world.
Being diagnosed with leukemia on top of managing a half dozen chronic medical conditions has made some folks state with a vague indignation:
“That’s not fair.”
And in response, I can only say “no shit.”
Bless them for recognizing it’s too much. Because it IS too much. But the truth – whether you are a believer in Jesus or not – is “too much” is a normal unit of measurement for the bullshittery we must endure in this life.
“It’s not fair” always takes me by surprise. It’s like, Huh. Whats that like…thinking fairness was a viable option in the first place?
I think of things should be fair, of course, and I will try to advocate against the mistreatment of others. But sometimes “others” are not the problem…standard issuehumanity is. Our bodies get busted, our minds get screwy, our spirits falter.
Where one person fights health woes, another might struggle to put food on the table. When one is brokenhearted, another worries about her children constantly. Job troubles, anxiety problems, the list is endless.
If you’re really lucky, you won’t have to contend with all the above simultaneously, but perhaps you have. Or are. I have been all at once before, and I guess it lent me an anxiety-laced sense of a transcendent acceptance (whatever that is. I’ll have to ask my therapist.) Anxious some times, yes – but accepting.
I’m not angry with God, not anymore. , I’ve survived a bunch of really agonizing things, and somehow managed not to pick up a drink in 23 years. And that’s astounding. I never expected sobriety to “stick” for me, and I’m befuddled that it has to this day.
I pretended I had strength, until I did. God and I came to spiritual fisticuffs, and he won when I surrendered. White light meets white flag. Something shifted.
It was confirmed to me during the hard years what I’d known all along – life is not fair, but it’s really good. Even with cancer and alcoholism. There so many beautiful things in this world to appreciate, and beautiful people.
Yes, it’s “too much” sometimes – walking around in achy flesh, on a gravity-bound planet that doesn’t seem to get your vibe. But keep vibing, and so will I.
Occasional freak-outs will 100% happen again; I’m starting to think they have just as much right to be part of our vibe as does our holiest, Jesus-trustin’ selves. You know, for the sake of fairness.
I struggled with whether or not to write this, but watched the Amazon Prime documentary, “Bad Faith” yesterday, and felt compelled to further the message by paraphrasing what of the social justice activists said: “The Christian Nationalists have a ‘Jesus,’ but it’s not MY Jesus!” And man, that resonated. I feel like my very best friend – Jesus – is being widely misrepresented, and it would be remiss of me not to defend his honor.
And I am also writing this because I can’t ignore the emperor’s-new-clothes mentality that has made his whole cult of personality, so that now he is some kind of “martyr.” I guess if you don’t believe that having someone shoot at you instantly gives you character and integrity, you are a part of the resistance? I wish no ill will or harm on anyone. But this seems to be the determining factor that made holdouts say, “The Lord made sure the bullet didn’t hit him! He MUST be the one!”
Resistance? So be it, then.
Jesus resisted institutions that persecuted the poor and marginalized. He resisted against the establishment who elevated the pious and religious, over the meek and humble. He was the resistance against self-righteous hypocrites who represented God with a cocky assuredness that theirs was the only way to please him. And he IS the Way. The Way himself was the Resistance.
We – as evangelicals – cut our teeth on scripture that gave us clear instructions: You will be able to tell followers of Jesus by the fruits of the Spirit. Show me one attribute of Trump’s – gentleness, kindness, peace-spreading, humbleness…go ahead, I’ll wait – that he has – even a low-hanging “fruit.” Jesus was laying down arms. Jesus was personal sacrifice. Feeding the poor. Providing aid to the sick. Jesus was humility. Jesus was Jesus-like. That’s kind of his whole bag.
But here we are – being asked to worship at the Golden Trump Calf, with nary a shriveled grape of the ONE THING we were told to expect as evidence that someone follows Jesus: LOVE. And it’s too bad for us, because he doesn’t display a single dingleberry. Anything at all.
Going back decades, this ex-POTUS’s MO had been screwing around on ALL his wives, cheating people, worshipping himself, making a god of money, looking down on religious folk as “weak,” stiffing the poor, grabbing women by the p*ssy (does reading that word in this context make you uncomfortable? It should.)
Now he slaps his name on the Bible and hints at encouraging domestic bloodshed, and we are all supposed to pretend like that’s holiness.
“But don’t you believe in forgiveness? Maybe he’s a changed man!” Okay. Again, I say, show me one single dingleberry of evidence that he operates from a pace of love now. He is USING CHRISTIANITY to further his agenda, and frankly, he is a shitty actor, and I feel like we are all living in a particularly terrifying episode of Black Mirror.
We are a nation blinded. And nothing and nobody will change the minds of those for whom cognitive dissonance is the accepted mindset. Open your ears, all that can hear. Open your eyes, all that can see. The Beast always comes in a savior suit. It’s a most clever disguise, but beloveds, we are supposed to know better. We are supposed to have graduated from “milk” to “meat,” spiritually. To be on the lookout for wolves in sheep’s clothing. We are supposed to have discernment – we were warned to expect this.
This IS the battle between good and evil, alright. Koo-koo bonkers on a whole other level. I want to be on the right side of history, and every cell in my sentient being heart is sickened by all of this.
Take heart, for Jesus has overcome this world. Good thing too. It’s WHACK here right now.
Yesterday was a very, very good day. It had been exactly a month since my diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, and my husband and I met with my oncologist to get staged and get a prognosis, after a battery of tests.
I am stage ZERO! CLL begins with stage zero, unlike most other cancers. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean I don’t have cancer – it just means that it’s in my marrow and blood but hasn’t spread anywhere else. My bone marrow biopsy confirmed that I definitely do have CLL, but the PET scan was clear!
My prognosis is good! We wait and watch now. I will go to the cancer center every three months forever to monitor my white cell blood count, lymphocytes, and web blood cells. But until my WBC doubles within a span of six months or I start to have lymph node problems, I am treatment free.
Will I need it someday? Most likely yes. CLL never entirely goes away. But I’m already on the one day at a time plan with my other chronic illnesses, I manage the POTs, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, and about another half dozen chronic conditions.
Life is crazy, man. Yesterday morning I was praying for the diagnosis of CLL rather than ALL – chronic vs. acute. Chronic has to be managed, acute is trouble. Funny that a month and a day ago, I would never been so flippin’ happy that I have any kind of cancer. Now I’m praising God that it is not acute, or do I require any treatment right now.
I didn’t need another major health concern, but I feel like my training wheels are off in this regard. I already live illness every day. And whatever this brings, I intend to rise to the occasion. Probably while doing a lot of bitching now and then, and maybe some crying, and a whole other layer of frustration…
But I’m pretty scrappy.
Thank you for all of you who have been praying for me. It is truly the best case scenario. I love my medical team and I’m so grateful for them as well.
I was alerted by the WordPress Bots that I have blogged 50 piecesnow on “Words by Jana Greene.”
I started this blog and retired my first, because I have different things to say now, and I’m not writing just for Christians. At all. I am writing for people who maybe don’t know what they believe, but they believe in the search for it with all their heart, and appreciate a kindred spirit. (Christians are of course welcome too; I count myself amongst you.)
I wanted to write in a way that was cleansing, raw, and maybe a smidge inspirational. And I think I’ve accomplished that. I hope so, anyway.
Fifty bearings of the soul.
Fifty chances to be vulnerable, in case someone else is feeling vulnerable too.
Fifty articles by the same old person?
Or am I the same old person?
I have a dear friend who likes to say that instead of having one inner child, we all have a whole preschool in us. And we do. I am finding myself to be a whole class full of university students.
Or, since I never went to college, maybe just a whole demographic of sensitive souls. Some that laugh at inappropriate things, like a 12 year old boy. Some who feel wise as a sage. Some that whine and fight naps like a preschooler. Some who manifest peace that passes understanding, like a monk. And some that scream WTF???!! into the abyss, like….well me.
Every last one of them, emotional.
All of them passionate. (Some of them need to chill already!)
Every day, we learn something different, hoping to end up a better person in some small way.
And most days, I come here to free-bleed words into the internet abyss, or celebrate some small victory, or rejoice, or complain. Sometimes all of those in one day!
What I’m trying to say in way too many words (as usual) is – I appreciate that someone out there is reading my work, and hopefully not looking at it like a stain on the carpet. I do enough of that to myself.
Hopefully, every day we are gaining some measure of connection or hop Ee, and if I can be a part of that, mission accomplished. Everything arrives right on time, and it’s my honor to share it with you, fellow human.
Thanks for taking the time to read me. I am grateful for every single way God manages to connect us, even as we are being divided (and subdivided) by society. Let us press into one another, with the Truth – which is that we are all connected.
While I’m bleeding words, I may as well hemorrhage some gratitude too. ❤
I have been triggered by so many scary things lately, pending my prognosis for CLL.
If we can be “triggered” by things that make us anxious, surely, we can choose to focus on the “glimmers” instead. It sure does seem that feeling triggered is a natural response to stress – it’s automatic, at least for me. It’s my subconscious mind’s default when facing the unknown.
I can amass worries, panic, and thoughts of doom like a pile of dirty laundry that takes up a whole corner of the room, without me realizing I don’t have anything clean to “wear.” I don’t want to wear despair, but as an uber-feely person, I do.
Or, I can focus on the glimmers, instead of “researching” CLL into the ground, (which will not change an outcome either way.) Here’s to counterbalancing with some GLIMMERS:
I love my medical team and trust them.
I have an excellent therapist.
I do not feel abandoned by God, but instead warmly comforted by him (to my own surprise.)
I have the strong support of my husband, children, dad, and sister. And a circle of friends so tight, they have become family in every way. I’m so grateful for my tribe.
Every medical professional I meet – even in passing – has been kind.
Many people live 10-20 years with my condition.
I have insurance, which is a monumental blessing (but OH how it breaks my heart that not everyone has access to medical care! Alas, that’s a whole blog post in itself, for another day!)
But I have to think on these things ON PURPOSE, or fear takes completely over.
The nurse who administered the radioactive isotope for the PET scan was prepping me for yet another IV this past week. I thanked him
“I’m not sure you should be thanking me,” he said, with a chuckle. “I’m fixing to poke you, make you radioactive, and put you through a machine.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you are kinder than you have to be. And not many people are anymore. You explained everything, you are being gentle with my arm and my feelings. You are being a ‘glimmer’ in this otherwise dark journey I’m on. Thank you.”
Triggers cause anxieties to pile up. The more they pile up, the more they smother me. Glimmers inspire me to give my neurosis a good scrub, clean up my attitude, and fold and put away my worries.
But hons, them clothes ain’t gonna clean themselves. They just won’t. I have to notice them, and unless I make a concerted effort to be aware, they pass me by. Every morning, I do a little mindfulness session. I play affirmations on my playlist and encouraging music. A little hippie-dippy meditation alone time with God. Help me to be aware of glimmers, I ask of him. Because in truth, they happen to us all the time. In my natural state, I just need help with awareness. It’s been a game-changer.
Try to notice the glimmers today and strengthen your divine in whatever way that works for you. I’ll be over here praying and sage-ing, singing, and loving, and hoping and believing (with, of course, intermittent bouts of anxiety. Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it can’t be ALL glimmers, ALL the time. We are only human, after all – but there is much beauty and joy that goes unrecognized.
Because, to quote Ferris Bueller, ““Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Util next piece, friends. Please be kinder than you have to. It’s a rough world out there. Spread all the glimmers you can.
Tomorrow I will find out what stage my Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, as well as my prognosis. Sunday, I had a little nervous breakdown – nothing that would send me to a grippy-sock vacation, but enough that I purged three weeks’ worth of tears in one flail swoop. I really let it out, which ended up being a good thing, even though I tried to resist The Big Cry up until then. I was afraid if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. And I was right – I didn’t stop for hours. But eventually I did, if only because I exhausted myself.
Monday, I felt a little better.
Tuesday, my nerves started gearing up again.
And today – Wednesday – I have been up since 2 a.m. doing “research.”
Now “research” by a person such as myself, means obsessing over whatever the Internet says my results are. The internet gives only two types of medical information – the shit that paints a gloomy picture, and the shit that is so clinically detailed, nobody outside of medical school would understand it.
I have berated myself on a number of occasions because I like to think I’m intelligent(ish,) but I cannot follow the concepts that keep the human body going. There are too many numbers, symbols, letters, reactions, tests, and charts. I was lost at line 1 of every article I read.
I am not medical-school smart, obviously. I am an empath who can micro-read the slight variations in a tone of voice, miniscule body language movement, even a “vibe.”
A genius at vibing, which frankly has never paid the bills or helped me read a medical report. I can string words together pretty well – words are my art medium. I can understand some abstract concepts, but I am lost right now. And my brain has only one useful thing to say in all of this drama, which is – unhelpfully – worry. How many times do I have to surrender? Meditate. Go inward, Self. And for cripe’s sake, you failed 10th grade Algebra, so maybe stop trying to make sense of flow symmetry and lab results.
My head is a jumble already, what with a crash-course introduction to CLL Genetic markers? I’ve learned what some of them mean. Flow Symmetry tests? Pure sci-fi. Bone marrow biopsies? Not as bad as a spinal tap, but certainly no fun. PET scans? Makes you radioactive and entails a lot of waiting around.
But I have also learned that mine is a typically slow-growing cancer and is rarely diagnosed in someone under 60. Many people live years (being closely medically monitored) and there are treatments that typically help extend the life. I keep telling myself it’s “no big deal.”
That I already contend with chronic pain and illness on the daily, I’m frustrated with this additional issue. So, daily I find myself fluctuating between telling myself to stop being such a baby, and equal parts Oh my GOD. (And yes, I recognize that there are much worse cancers, much worse conditions out there … this is just my brain trying to hammer my feelings out of my noggin and onto a page, where it is much easier to reason with!)
The not-knowing is awful. I will be happy to close out my “research” study, after the appointment tomorrow. Knowlege is power (for real for real) and I guess that’s why I feel like a puny weakling right now, especially mentally. But ONWARD AND UPWARD. I am actively seeking “glimmers.”
“Glimmers” are simply the opposites of “triggers.”
I can focus on being triggered, and there will be plenty of reasons to be. The triggers that, well…trigger me. LIke: I am legitimately phobic of hospitals. The very word “cancer” trips me up. Thinking of how all of this will ultimately affect my family – HUGE trigger. How much is this going to run us, financially? Feeling like I was already sick, so what the actual HELL? There’s a little justifiable anger there, if I’m being honest. The pokes and prodding. The waiting rooms. The smell of antiseptic. Germs. Upended plans. Good old fashioned sadness.
Next, I think I’ll write about glimmers, and end today’s writing sesh with some positivity.
Some of y’all had your say. Now I’m going to have mine. I interrupt the “regularly scheduled programming” to have a little commentary on Christian Nationalism. (In a former blog, I once had a reader comment, “THIS is NO PLACE for POLITICS!” Um, it’s my little piece of real estate on the web, and my blog, and as such, I reserve the right to write whatever I damn well please. Aint nobody making you follow me. It’s still a free country! Not sure for how long, but…
“Bad Faith” on Amazon Prime is upsetting, terrifying, and should be recommended viewing for any soul who “follows Jesus.” It is not a “liberal” movie – many Jesus-loving believers who are NOT Christian Nationalists get their say too. Yes, we DO exist. Please consider giving it a watch.
I am absolutely sick that Jesus – the one who embodies the fruits of the spirit – charity, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control, etc. – is being trotted out as an effigy in a MAGA hat, pimped out by “Christian” Nationalists with entitlement complexes, and being affixed to a movement that does not honor him in the least.
I cannot imagine Jesus waving an American flag any more than I can see him in a …
“I ❤️ ROME!” T-shirt.
The God who spoke us ALL into existence, and created the entire UNIVERSE, omnipresent and all-powerful, thinks WE – a people who do not even originate here but stole every inch of it – are the “chosen.”
The self-importance! The arrogance, to believe he chooses Americans above other nations and peoples, while having no concern for racism, poverty, human rights, feeding the hungry, or doing any damn thing that might humble them in the least.
How did we GET here? America ain’t all that anymore. I’m embarrassed right now. I imagine Jesus saying, “I know you not,” when seeing the hoards of entitled conservatives storming the White House. And the party has chosen the single least-like-Jesus person on the planet to head their cause.
Forgive us, God, for our utter arrogance. And forgive those who speak in word but not deed – even though I’m certain this is not a “they know not what they do” excuse. They know.
As a former Christian Nationalist myself years ago, I asked God to break my heart for what breaks his. And guess what? He didn’t break it on account of billionaires with megalomaniac tendencies. Or people who are intolerant, smug in their resolution that social justice doesn’t matter, or unwilling to see a point of view different from their own.
Be conservative if you want. But leave my Jesus OUT of your politics.
Got through the PET scan yesterday. Thank you all for sweet thoughts and prayers. It went “fine,” whatever that is. Except for once I was strapped on the table, I started crying. Fat, rolling tears came, en masse. And I had nothing to disassociate with. I wanted to grab my phone, or a TV remote, or a book, or ANYTHING. But my arms were strapped down to my side, so there was nowhere for any of it to go, no way to stuff it. So, as I traveled inch-by-inch through a giant mechanical donut (not nearly as bad as an MRI – look at the positive! – tears just rolled down my face for 45 minutes.
I would have given my kingdom for a single meme. Alas, it was just me and God in that machine, and it became clear to me that I am really sick.
What a time to snap out of denial, eh? Until now, I’ve thought of all the tests as just a “maybe I have cancer. Or maybe they’re wrong!” Even though an oncologist told me I did. Even though the biopsy confirmed it. They just have to do all these tests to rule it out, I kept telling myself.
Except they do not do bone marrow biopsies and PET scans for the hell of it. So, in the PET scanner, radioisotope coursing through my body, I accepted it. I cried the whole damn time and just FELT it. I was literally a human burrito, wrapped tight and constrained. I was reminded that this is why I made such a great candidate for alcoholism. Numb the BADFEELS.
After my childhood trauma and the series of unfortunate events in my life that followed, I just didn’t want to feel for the longest time. That was 23 years ago though and I know better now.
My sobriety is secure, and I’m grateful for that. It is only secure for today, because that’s how this thing works no matter how much sober time you have. But I’ve found my rusty recovery “toolbox” recently and it turns out that the tools are still in pristine order; it’s just the container that’s a little corroded and aged (hey! Just like my body!) I am daily remembering to keep my tools in working order – reaching out to friends. Spending time in meditation and prayer. Strengthening my soul. Keeping my mind busy. Practicing extreme gratitude.
But damn, y’all. I was already sick. There were already days that it was too much, just too much. So maybe the next step is anger, I don’t know. I suspect there is overlap in the stages of grief.
Anyway, one more test down; next up is meeting with my oncologist about staging the cancer , giving a prognosis, and planning treatment. Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia is forever – the only cancer that never truly leaves your body. But the best-case scenario would be that he takes a “wait and watch” approach. I will have to get labs every three months for the rest of my life; to monitor it, and take action when the sea of letters and numbers and markers and God-only-knows-what-else indicates treatment. But I am symptomatic, so it will not surprise me if I need chemo. That’s the crappy thing right now – that I have no idea.
So I’ll break out another tool, which is trust. Trust that the Universe has my best interest in mind, and that may not look like physical healing. I learned a long time ago that everything is indeed not healed in the name of Jesus – in this Realm. I would rather have a healed Spirit than a healed body, and for many years, “name it and claim it” damaged me far more than being sick. Casting “demons” out of sick people is incredibly damaging. As is “you are already healed in Jesus NAME!” Really? Because I am still physically hurting. Stop it. Just stop telling people that it’s their lack of faith that is keeping them from getting healed; all it does is create spiritual orphans out of people who are already suffering. I’ll get my healing. Eventually, but maybe not here. And that’s not lack of faith. Child, if I lacked FAITH, I wouldn’t have bothered to stick around this janky planet, in this janky body.
I’m real sorry my chronic, debilitating illness makes your faith messy. People get well. They also stay sick. And sometimes they leave us. And I’m pretty sure Jesus understands that. Don’t insult my faith. I have been through more and trials infirmary in my life than you can shake a crucifix at. God and I are well, thank you.
I digress though. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, letting the emotions flow. Because they aren’t going away on their own either; feelings are meant to be felt! Even the yucky ones.
Well, Dear Reader, things are trucking right along. A few days ago, I went to the hospital for my bone marrow biopsy – which was not quite as bad as it sounds.Almost, but not quite. Definitely no fun whatsoever, but as it turns out, I’m tougher than I’ve given myself credit for all these years. I straight-up felt like a badass, if that badass was scared shitless and masking the hell out of it, so as not to upset those around me worried about me.
And I don’t know how NOT to do that – mask for the sake of everyone around me. I can’t upset my husband. He is literally the best thing that has ever happened to me – my heart. I have to be brave for my daughters. They are processing in their own ways. And my readers – most of whom followed me from The Beggars Bakery – have watched me amass almost 24 years alcohol-free and they watch my recovery.
In recovery circles, you become very aware that people are watching you, seeing how you handle adversity and whatnot. I took on that mantle like a good People Pleaser, each year giving my testimony – every year, louder cheering when I would pick up my annual chip, but I hated the public speaking and fought nerves every meeting I ever shared at.
Frankly, I am cheering myself right now for staying sober, because F*CK! This is really hard.
But I’m kind of watching myself, being critical in a way I never was with anyone else’s tender heart, and why do I do that? Do better. Be more positive. God has a plan. Yadda yadda. Ugh. Beating myself over the head with toxic positivity because I know how to be toxically positive and laugh at every situation, but I don’t know how to do THIS.
Am I tough, or am I masking? Am I brave, or am I am I pretending? After all the scans and biopsies and scary medical stuff, I feel tougher. But I also feel rawer, tender in parts of my spirit – the pure and the shadowy – I didn’t know existed.
I was alright until I shuffled into the CAT scan room, so that they could guide the needle through my hip bone, into my marrow, suck out some of it, and punch a little piece of bone for biopsy as well. Because of a series of unfortunate events, I was by myself. Also I didn’t think anyone would be allowed back with me, but the waiting room had another waiting room someone could have been there in with me. But no. Just me and my thoughts, avalanching into numbness.
The team of three taking care of me were amazing – I could not have asked for gentler, more calming medical professionals – tried to put me at ease. But when I looked around, I saw the implements of the procedure, and had an internal freak-out. All I could think of was the Showtime series “Dexter,” which my husband and I LOVE and are currently bingeing. Drills! Sharp things! Syringes! Lord, Dexter would LOVE this set-up! I laugh to myself, then realize I’m just deflecting with humor again, a skill I hones early. Not that Dexter is funny – it’s just the lengths my brain will go to avoid feeling fear is ridiculous. I fought the fear to jump off the table and run…as if the joints in my legs would let me run further than the door.
“Okay, we are inserting the needle,” said the radiologist (forgive me if I mess up on the official job titles. I have seen a dizzying array of medical professionals in the past three weeks and it’s hard to keep them straight.) They had numbed me with lidocaine and put a little somethin-somethin’ in my IV for the pain. I could still feel it to some degree; I am very difficult to anesthetize. I feel EVERYTHING, mind, body, and soul.
The kindly PA explained that they were entered the bone. What a strange, awful sensation. Needles don’t belong there. But by the same token, I am so grateful that science allows them to help me in every way they can, and I say a quick praise for them. Then they said they were taking the marrow now “….almost there, almost there, almosttttt….” and I yelped because I could feel pain and pulling. Next was the bone punch. Mother of GOD.
Go to your happy place, I said to myself….that little house in Wimberley, Texas, with a stream out back as clear as bathwater, and full of little fishes. The grass is damp and glossy because it’s morning. There are bluebonnets, of course. And I see a sly little water moccasin swimming upstream a bit. I am not scared at all, just give him a nod as he slithers on his merry way – he belongs here too.We ALL belong, in my happy place. Van Morrison is playing in the little house up the hill. I am eating s bowl of Blue Bell Banana Puddin’ ice cream, while I dangle my bare toes in the clear water. Ahhh, so cool. It smells like Texas here. It smells like home. It is beautiful weather, not at all hot. And the creek is making tinkle noises, and I look up to see my husband, smiling, and…
“You’re a rock star!” the Tech said, bringing me back.
“You did SO good!” “You’re so BRAVE.” “Treat yourself to something special today!”
These are all things I said to my kids when I was potty-training them, and with the same inflection. And I was not mad about it, nor did I feel patronized. Dammit, I received every kudo. Talk sweet to me. Tell me I did a good job. (A sticker on my forehead, please?) Every comforting word was exactly what I needed to hear as a scared little girl whose screams went unanswered.
In case you are wondering, I did treat myself to something following my marrow biopsy. Something decadent and extravagant. Something I have been denying myself forever, because GOSH DAMN, it’s so expensive. It costed me much, but rewarded me more.
I had myself a big old cry. I let myself be sad about all this. I didn’t tell myself to get it together. Me alone with my thoughts – we all cried. And then we felt a little better. Until we felt sad again. And then hopeful. And then just raw. But it’s okay, not everything needs to be anesthetized. Maybe I can even cheer for a myself, for a change. Atta girl! This is still my “testimony,” and we shall see how I handle adversity and whatnot. I suspect it will be a mixed bag.
This is hard. Writing helps. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.
Three weeks ago, I received my diagnosis of chronic lymphocytic leukemia. It’s been a weird time, to say the least. I still can’t believe I am typing the word cancer as relates to myself, because I’ve often thought, gee….I have a lot of medical problems but at least it’s not cancer!
And life – for the thousandth time – said THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!
A few surprising things are resulting from my utter shock. For the first week, I don’t think I used the “C” word (no not that one, don’t be gross.) I called it “the illness.” Sick.” But I am finding that calling it out by name – cancer – takes just the tiniest, miniscule crumb of scariness out of it, even though I’ve seen what it can do and have respect for the illness. Acknowledging the name of the thing you’re fighting helps the fight-iness, I think. I am not apt to tolerate elephants in living rooms anymore, but face it and comfort it, if need be. But see it…really see it.
A dear friend of mine told me yesterday to stop calling it “my” cancer. “It’s OUR cancer,” she said, which made my eyes well up. I don’t want to bring my friends and family infirmary and sadness. I want to bring them joy and laughter. Alas, like everything else in life, it’s not “or” but “and.” It isn’t joy OR sadness. It is both, and there is nothing I can do about that.
So even though this is completely out of my control – as are all of my conditions – I’m trying to temper the rushing guilt of bringing everyone down that comes in waves. Our sweet tribe – our closest of friends – lost someone to cancer, only seven short months ago. We are family, in all the most genuine of ways. We are all still reeling and broken, trying to figure out how to live in a world she no longer inhabits physically. (Notice I said “physically.” I feel her spirit every single day, and I know she comforts and encourages me now.) Hers was “our” cancer too. Because none of us live in a vacuum, nor would we want to. It was an honor for her to let us walk her home. I hope I am half as brave, ballsy, and beautiful as she, in coping with this journey.
Perhaps this is not a wilderness experience. Maybe it’s not survival-“Naked and Afraid”-style – when one person has tapped out, and the lone contestant braves the wild. Truthfully, there are traumatized parts of me – parts left of the little girl in me left to fend for herself when I was helpless – that is fighting the urge to run. Run where, I do not know. I’m not a runner. But if I disappeared into the ethers, just *POOF!* it would not make anything easier for the people who love me. It’s a dumb thought born of “flee, fight, fawn,” which I very much needed to hone as a child but does not serve me now.
But I surely do feel Naked and Afraid – raw, vulnerable, exposed, frightened. All of it tinged with guilt about dragging other contestants into a jungle they didn’t even sign up to brave.
If you’ve ever watched the Discovery Channel show, the participants are supposed to be given ONE item to help us survive. A machete. A tin cup. A fishing hook. SOMETHING.
WHERE IS OUR ONE ITEM, FOR CRIPE’S SAKE??
And then it comes to me – we are equipped. With just one survival item – it’s all we get.
Love.
See, the undamaged parts of me have a knowing – we are given one item, and only one that matters. It’s not a weapon. It cannot be stolen, used against us, or bartered.
Love keeps me from tapping out. Love keeps me from running. And love will be the key to my survival – to OUR survival. It’s all we take with us. It’s all we are born with and die with. It is everything.
Dear Reader, yesterday was hard. I will write about it in a bit. But as I was resting this morning and going through the scazillion pictures on my phone, I came across some videos I’d taken to make a little TikTok about little things that make me happy. I had taken them before I knew I was facing cancer – but decided to make the video anyway. Because all the more reason to make it. All the more reason to take notice of good things. Not for the sake of toxic positivity, but because I’m trying not to let the negativity win. Blessed be, friends.
If I had a dime for every time I have heard this scripture in the church -telling me I’m “already well,” I would be a kajilionaire. And the words are said with love and good intention, and belief that “healed” means bopping up out of a wheelchair INSTANTLY.
I can only say so much about the subject, because I have been both a victim and a perpetrator of “faith healing.” Again, with all the best intentions. But much damage was done to my spirit on the road to heal my body. And with my intentions, I had probably given someone false hope. You feel spiritually orphaned when you stay ill.
“You’re already healed, you just don’t know it!” they told me, when walking was torment and the joint pain excruciating. Oh, thought I. I must have some flaw that keeps me from receiving. And as I got sicker, I felt like a disappointment to all who were so fervently praying for me.
Perhaps it’s the “demon of infirmary, which is a little trickier to toss, but don’t despair, Beloved! “The Word is a weapon, and we will command the enemy to leave your flesh!” Only it felt like I myself was being “cast out,” because I wouldn’t get well. I took it personally, and it seemed like they did too.
Still sick? *sigh* “Well, have you thought maybe you have a secret SIN? Everybody has secrets, but Jesus loves you anyway HALLELUJIA? and he knows your heart. Confess unto him, and you will be well! (Why does everything revolve around SIN in the church? Frankly, a God who can heal you but just won’t is not the same God I was taught was love.
I was told at one service by the pastor, “The metal in your leg from the injury has TURNED TO BONE! Get an x-ray, and you’ll see!” Faith healing seems Biblical, so to it we cleave.
Now, I consider myself reasonably intelligent. I get by. But brethren, I believed it. Because, well… cult reasons, honestly. I had invested my whole life in this system in which any disability they can’t hibbity-jibbity out of me in reasonable amount of time (or at all!) was a defect of the strength of my belief. I am a rabid people pleaser (working on that) so disappointing the clergy was of utmost concern.
I love the late Carrie Fisher, herself no stranger to things like addiction, depression, illness and the like. My favorite quote from her is, “Instant gratification takes too long.”
INSTANT GRATIFICATION TAKES TOO LONG. And maybe that’s why our faith is so impatient, so spiritually entitled. We are taught that we don’t deserve to be healed really, but it’s our birthright, so God has to do it. (Spoiler alert: God doesn’t have to do squat but love us and teach us to love in return.
Here’s the corker though, I think – and it’s kind of a piss-off here Earthside: I think we will all be ultimately healed. But we’ve just taken the healings that Jesus did as miracles when he was Earthside and assumed that same healing is for every person.
But on the physical plane, that may not be so. These are meat-suits, and they are temporary and bockity as all Hell. Creaky, apt to damage, prone to wear and tear. Several features do not work. The Church told me I bought the warranty, but if so, the warranty company ghosted me (I tried not to type, “but not the HOLY GHOST,” because she hasn’t gone anywhere…)
I believe our pain pains God – which I still think is true. But that logically deduces that there will be pain. And I wonder how much being a sickly kid emersed in an environment that tells me I am inherently bad dinged up my psyche. To add to that, I lived in an echo chamber as an adult, where nobody would admit seeing the emperor had NO CLOTHES, because they all believed like I did.
Maybe I’ll get that physical healing this side of eternity. God, I hope so. Science is making huge strides! I will welcome it. Western medicine, Eastern medicine, prayer, meditation, and breathwork? I’m going to throw EVERYTHING I can at this illness. I don’t think God faults me for it, either. I will keep praying for healing. But I will also not make the physical my god. I begged a seemingly aloof god to make me well. What I got is an incredibly compassionate God who inhabits this body with me. And sometimes that has to be sufficient, like his grace.
To pretend that we are all entitled to be able-bodied and expect such does our fellow humans a great disservice. It’s just another method of setting others apart in the name of God. But there is no separation. Your pain is my pain, too.
I think in a way, I did get my healing. And it was different from what I was told to expect. It didn’t come with tossing my walking cane to the side and doing a jig. It didn’t come as relief for my chronic, unrelenting pain, to be honest. And that bummed me out for a long time and kept me from healing on the inside.
But I did heal on the inside – I am still healing every single day, from the ‘inside.’
We are not ghosted by our birthrights. We are made of stardust and God-spit, with whatever infirmary becomes our new normal is a surface just a ding in the paint. It’ll buff right out. Meanwhile, beloveds, take gentle, loving care of yourselves. Body, mind, and especially Spirit.
Okay this is the proof I got out of my actual pajamas yesterday, if only for an hour.
By: JANA GREENE
Hi. In the interest of journalistic integrity (haha), I feel like adding a disclaimer of some kind to the entries I’m going to be adding in Words by Jana Greene. Because I’m a writer, I like stories to have a clear beginning, middle, and end. I like when I can weave the narrative in clever ways or end up with a cohesive piece.
Yeah, this is NOT that.
When writing about this journey in particular, I am writing stream-of-consciousness-style, and if you don’t want to read me because this page may be full of incorrectly punctuated, rambling, seemingly random words, I get it Sis. I am not over-editing, because that breaks the intention of sharing my heart and makes it sort-of clinical in a way. I’m going to get plenty of “clinical;” this is the opposite, I think.
Yesterday, I had a rollicking good afternoon. Weirdly good. I put on a dress, asked my husband if we could go to dinner. I’m so tired of having cancer-ese language in my head.
I did my makeup, which happens with the relative frequency of a solar eclipse, and my hair – which is very long and very thick, and EXAUSTING to my hypermobile shoulders. And THEN – after alllll that – I look him dead in the eye. “Baby, I’ve used every ounce of my energy getting ready. I’m exhausted.”
“It’s okay,” says he. “Want to order in wings and binge-watch Dexter?” GOD, I LOVE THAT MAN.
So, lickity-split, I changed back into my “Agape Against the Machine” oversized t-shirt, ordered food, washed off every bit of makeup, plopped on the couch with my beloved, and ate chicken wings King-Henry-the-Eighth style in a MOST unladylike fashion with what little energy I had left.
The energy of a sick person is finite. And some days, it is more finite than others. “But you just DID it,” they say. “Yes!” say I. “And that’s why I can’t do it again!”
Doling it out over the course of the day must be deliberate. We don’t just “do things,” we do things that deplete our body’s energy ration in parcels. The parcels are not of our choosing, even. We wake up, take stock of pain, and – if our pain to exhaustion ratio is high, goals for the day get voted off the island until you are left with one crappy thing to do that isn’t even fun. Disabled bodies are utilitarian, and have no time for frivolity, on low-energy, high-pain days.
The ante was significantly upped with the cancer diagnosis June 13.
Tomorrow morning, I go for an invasive bone marrow test, which by all accounts SUCKS. I feel like up until now, I’ve been pretty accepting of my diagnosis and kind of positive about all this, but I ain’t feeling brave this morning. Fight, Flight, and Fawn all have seats at my breakfast table right now, and they look a hot mess.
So, today, I interrupt my own sometimes-toxic positivity with a special news bulletin:
I’m scared.
For the first time since the diagnosis, I am legitimately scared. I don’t know what triggered the fear (having cancer, probably – ha) but as tomorrow’s test looms, I’ve decided NO THANK YOU PLEASE, I don’t want to do this cancer thing. But thanks for the offer, I already have a full schedule full of trying to stay alive. I already gave at the office. Dance card is full.I have prior engagements. But thanks for stopping by!
But that’s not reality, so I just need to be able to say, “I’m f*cking terrified.”
When a disabled person gets cancer, there are “people of the Lord” who assume God’s got it OUT for me. Why else would he “allow” all of this? Or this secular quip: “You’re the unluckiest person I know.”
But I don’t feel unlucky. I am surrounded by light and support and love. I just feel scared today, with a chance of intermittent sadness. Not strong. Not perky and upbeat. Just run-of-the-mill scared. I feel both: Scared AND lucky to have such an amazing tribe helping me make it through.
So I’ll shut this laptop, and light some candles, and get into a quiet spot, and breathe deliberately. I might take out my tongue drum and play some tones, focusing on each one as it completes its own life cycle of vibration, letting the sound take my fear down a buttonhole. Light some sage, let it’s perfume reassure me. Pray honest. Do some breathwork. Maybe I’ll get into the paints and make a mess today. Talk to God, and listen for his answer back, which can come in a myriad of ways – you just have to have the awareness to hear it. (Just ask for greater awareness of the Divine. God wants us to have the peace that passes understanding. He is not stingy with it! Don’t believe me? God lit in the forest by yourself for a while and receive. I highly recommend.
These are some of my tools to treat the fear when it comes. I acknowledge it, thank it for trying to protect me, but busy myself in art and music until it can stop actin’ a fool. And perhaps in the coming weeks, I will have another energy burst and put on the little black dress again, and actually make it out the front door! Maybe get all the way to a nice restaurant, where I’ll be able to stay awake, digest food like a normal person, and have a whole-ass date, start to finish. My husband deserves that – and so much more.
Pop-up fevers for no apparent reason? Check. Waking up at night drenched with sweat, when you are years beyond menopause (hysterectomy 2008) … Check. Crippling fatigue? Check. Covered in bruises? CHECK. Shortness of breath? Sometimes. Totally crappy immune function… bad luck or cancer?
Now these are all things that could have a different cause than my Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. Having been diagnosed less than two weeks ago, it makes me wonder though. It explains SO MUCH. But I have had symptoms for a long time, and have multiple issues that make me medically fragile.
Could be a Mast Cell attack (a comorbidity of Ehlers Danlos Syndrome) causing the fevers. Drenching sweat could be a menopause relapse or something, but since my ovaries left the building in 2008 when I had my hysterectomy, I know it’s not. Fatigue and easy bruising could be my Postural Tachycardia Syndrome (or result from my own clumsiness.) Shortness of breath could be run-of-the-mill anxiety, which has constant since the diagnosis – sometimes holding my hand lightly like a lover basking in familiarity (oh HI, Anxiety! I know YOU); sometimes squeezing so tight, like an anaconda is strangling my nervous system
Here’s the thing – I’m in the weird place right now. I am carrying malignant cells in my blood, but I have no idea if the cells are sleeping and dormant for now or having a full-on rave going on in my body, techno music blaring, glowsticks swinging, chaos ruling.
I have an upcoming, invasive medical tests and scan. I don’t know whether the scan will show no spread yet (and thus be Stage 0 – which means no symptoms but cancer in the blood/marrow, the best case scenario – as it requires only “wait and watch” approach); or my body could light up like a Christmas tree and require treatment right now. I don’t know. And the not knowing is hard, no?
But God is providing so much grace to me and surrounding me with support. So, either way, I’m keeping the faith, and holding on to a hearty helping of dark humor. I have always found those two to be essential to getting through tough spots. I will find a damn way to laugh about things, y’all. Humor is to my comfort in a storm what a safe harbor is to a boat. And I know God walks with me through all of it, holding my hand just right.
Thank you for taking the time to read this and follow my journey. Everything is called a “journey” these days – probably because everything IS a journey – but this is one not too many people want to be a part of. I write to process and believe that going through something hard without sharing the experience is a waste of a terrible era. Others need to know sickness and calamity are part of life, just as much as promotions and clean bills of health. We have plenty of people pretending everything is FINE, when clearly *gestures wildly* it is not. Healthy people make being healthy SO EASY. Some of them just roll out of bed each day with zero pain. What’s THAT like?
I’m so old, I remember when presidential debates were civil and if one talked over the other, it made news because it was RUDE. Remember when rudeness mattered?
I’m going to stray a bit from my usual content to vent about our current presidential situation, hopefully for the last time, but don’t quote me on that because HOOBOY! It’s going to a bumpy ride.
No. I did not watch the Presidential Debate. So let’s get that out of the way. “But Jana, how do you know it was a disaster if you didn’t watch it?” I’ve unfortunately pored over the snippets and talked to friends who did watch.
Ain’t nobody got anything good to say, unless they are maybe really good at cognitive dissonance, which is when you’ve already made up your mind about a candidate, and anything he says will be processed in your brain IN HIS FAVOR.
The reason I know this is I was the Queen of Cognitive Dissonance not too terribly many years ago. So cocksure was I that I was on the right side of history, I hardly listened to what people who believed differently than me had to say, and when I did, I listened through the filter of already being “right,” which discounts their point-of-view entirely before you’re out of the gate.
And if you have made up your mind already, debates are useless – just a gladiatorial showcase or two old men who have NO concept of what living paycheck to paycheck is, much less be “in touch with the People.” (The PEOPLE? Yeah, that’s US. We fall by the wayside in all of this.)
Also, I hate to state the obvious, but we have seen with our own eyeballs how each of them ACTUALLY “presidents.” So this is season two of a really sh*tty series and I cannot BELIEVE it was renewed for a new season.
Didn’t most of us teach our kids not to bully others, call other children names, to share their toys and resources, and to use their indoor voices?
We taught them to work out their feelings out without resorting preschool behavior (even though THEY were ACTUAL preschoolers?) At tender ages, they learned to advocate for themselves without being disrespectful, to not inturreupt each other, and to tell the truth?Weren’t these the baseline manners and respect we instilled in them when they were in diapers, for @&$/# sake?
SO WHY CAN’T ADULT LEADERS MANAGE TO TO DISPLAY ONE SINGLE BIG-BOY BEHAVIOR? NO REGARD FOR RESPECT, AND NO RISING FIRST- GRADER MANNERS? If they were on their BEST behavior (you’d think auditioning for Leader of the Free World would inspire classiness, but you’d be wrong) during a debate, at least we would know they had some civility. But now I’m thinking HOLY SHITEBALLS, maybe this IS their BESST behavior. Which explains so much…
What’s that you say? They are righteously upset, and that makes it okay? Hell naw. It doesn’t make it okay. This country is broke as a joke, in more ways than one. Guess who else led “passion” for what they do? Nero. Hitler. Caligula. Hell, even Ted Bundy.
Maybe some of are staying away from politics right now NOT because we don’t care about our country, but because we care so much about her we can barely stand to watch the fall of an empire, in the name of Christian nationalism, no less, by a man who displays not ONE SINGLE FRUIT IF THE SPIRIT. Not even a little, shriveled grape of grace, or dingleberry of actual truth. (Note to self: incorporate “dingleberry of truth” in everyday conversation.)
The sitting president is giving Weekend at Bernie’s. I don’t actually thing Biden is evil, just aged and currently on some other planet, which also does us NO good here on earth, that he is supposed to be RUNNING a portion of. The other is, well, Trump.
Shame on us. Shame on us for accepting this. Shame on us for propping up Biden and expecting him to have ONE coherent thing to say, and shame on us for allowing that tyrannical, arrogant, extremely UN-Jesusy megalomaniac who has published his own version of the BIBLE (which doesn’t phase some of you, wtf?) get THIS FAR.
We are the laughingstock of the entire world and I ain’t even mad about it because DAYUM, old farts!
Through the supposed “leaders of the free world” we saw a political version of The Punch and Judy Show (Biden would be familiar with that.) You gave us a shitshow SO SPECTACULAR, it will go down in the books as the single most undignified, unhinged, embarrassing impressions of two entitled, pull-up wearin’, nanny-nanny-boo-boo-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo Kindergartener displayin’ blowhards, for ALLLLL the world to see.
Returning to my regularly scheduled content next, which is usually about my woo woo spirituality, recovery, the frustrations with and triumphs over chronic illness, including cancer.
I would rather write about my chronic illness than the chronic state of the union – the union is whack, and our candidates are a cancer on this great nation, no less toxic than a percentage of the janky blood my marrow is making – useless in any practicality and snuffing the life out its host. As Americans, we are playing host to this political machine, and it is sucking the life out of us. It is ABSOLUTELY dividing us from one another. Which I think is their whole point.
And with that, I bid you good day. Please smile at strangers. Please feed the hungry. Please be there for your sick friend, open the door for people, and remember that every single person is battling something you don’t see. Please try to remember these two “leaders” don’t your name, or even really care what you think, so long as it translates to money and power.
Words by Jana Greene 