There are Good People in This World and They Ride the W Train

My heart plummeted even further when I looked out of the train window.

Exchange Place? Damn it, I got on the wrong train.

I exhaled a short, sharp breath, already upset by the argument that had been taking place with my friend. I have never been one for discord and any sort of disagreement can overwhelm me.

Unfortunately, I was already past my breaking point. My mind that morning was full of bills to pay and juggling responsibilities, so it didn’t help my mind that this unplanned argument was taking place via text. And text arguments are the worst because there’s a coldness to them, a lack of any empathy in the words presented. I went to my normal state of anxious-yet-functioning to volatile-and-about-to-cry.

I knew I was volatile because I never mistakenly get on the wrong train. There are only two trains on the line – 33rd Street and World Trade Center. It’s not too hard to mix that up. At least I went on the train on the right side.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, I chanted to myself. I put headphones in and started to listen to the bouncy rhythms of Los Campesinos!, hoping the music would distract me from my sadness.

The train let out at World Trade Center and I started to walk to the R/W, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Still walking, I sobbed in the middle of the Oculus, as if I was in a soap opera. I tried stifling it, since normally I can hold back tears to a silent stream if I’m in public. It was no use. I let go. I was crying obnoxiously and there was no point to think that people hadn’t seen me.

I walked through the glass doors and up the steps to the platform. I got on the W train, thinking that maybe sitting would help relax me.

Nope, I still was ugly crying, my tears traveling from the Oculus to a subway car. At least I was able to make myself a little quieter, but it was still obvious that I was upset.

After a few stations of struggling, the car jolted to a stop at 14th Street. I looked up and a woman was offering me her tissues. I paused the music and gulped a few breaths, struggling to find my voice.

“Thank you so much,” I finally said.

“I’m so sorry sweetie,” she said, and she went back to her seat. Her eyes were a little teary herself.

She sat back down, and the man sitting next to me looked my way.

“Is there anyone I need to beat up,” he said, cracking a small smile.

I laughed between gulps.

“No, I’m good!”

“Is it a man? Oh, I’ll go after him. I’m not good for much, but I’m good for something!” he said. He looked over to the woman who gave me tissues. She was now dabbing her eyes as well.

“Are you okay??” he asked.

“Oh yes, I was just crying because she was crying!” she said, chuckling a bit.

“Seriously, I will go after him for you if you need me to,” he said to me.

“No, it’s okay, it’s just an argument with one of my girl friends. I’ll be alright though!” I said. I was smiling now and the sobs and gulps had stopped. Tears were still coming down my face, but I felt lighter.

“Okay, well, you sure you’ll be alright?” he said as he stood up and got ready to leave at the next stop. The tissue woman was getting ready to leave as well.

“I promise I will be.” I said, and this time my smile was full.

The two of them left, on their separate ways. I stayed on for the rest of the ride for my own separate way.

When I left the train, I walked out of the station with a bounce in my step. I looked up at the buildings and I put my headphones back in. I felt so connected, I felt so protected, even though I couldn’t possibly personally know everyone in this city.

God, I love New York, I thought, and I walked into work ready to start the day.


The Red Door and the Drunk Toilet

Let’s state the obvious here: I’m not someone who’s known for sitting through a horror film unfazed. I also am not someone who’s known for handling a variety of liquor too well. Lastly, as this whole blog can attest to, I very easily cry.

With the three of these elements combined, you have an old-fashioned-Claire style emotional hurricane on the horizon.

Well, such was a day late in September. My boyfriend and I went to a benefit concert for cancer awareness in the early afternoon. Given the stories being told and reflecting on my own family connections to cancer, it was impossible not to cry throughout the whole experience.

Then the liquor started. And it wasn’t just a friendly rum and Coke. It was Jell-O shots, whiskey shots, beer, and I even tossed some rosé wine in there. This happened within a three-hour span.

I thought to myself, Well, it’s not red wine, so I shouldn’t get too sick. Somehow, I thought that red wine would be the culprit of any stomach trouble, not the varietal concoctions of hard alcohol.

My boyfriend also noticed my intake. “Claire, try sticking with the beer,” he encouraged. But the deed had already been done. I had effectively mixed.

When we left, I initially expected the commute back to take two hours. But, smart or not, we got an Uber. We were back at our apartment in a matter of 20 minutes.

The night was young! It was merely 5pm! And my boyfriend and I are festive people, so we knew just how to spend our time for the evening. Looking ahead to the next month, we wanted to celebrate Halloween early.

Shall we watch Beetlejuice? No. Shall we watch The Babadook? No, we already watched that on a flight recently.

Shall we watch one of the most visually disturbing films of the past 10 years, Insidious?

Yes, that one!

Now, I had not nearly begun to sober up and I was already feeling a range of vulnerable emotions. I was so inebriated that my normal emotional defense mechanisms were shut off. Shields were down, Enterprise style. Sober Claire would be too scared. Drunk Claire was more cavalier than that.

Since I’m still drunk, I won’t remember it and I’ll be able to handle the scares, I thought.

I was right in one aspect – I only remember portions of Insidious. We were flipping channels a few weeks later and Spike was playing it. The scene was when one of the ghost hunters – whose face was NOT familiar to me in any form – was looking in a hallway and found some paranormal sisters. Needless to say, I ran out of the room as if I’d never seen it before.

When we started the movie, it was around 5:30pm. I was starting to feel a little queasy, but I attributed it to a normal reaction to the alcohol.

If I drink more, the feeling will go away, I thought. That’s what we always tell ourselves when we’re drunk. We’re like alcohol conmen and we’re our own targets.

In addition to the queasiness, that tight, uneasy sensation I get with horror films started as well. It’s the same feeling I get when I read Adam Ellis’ Dear David thread, it’s the same feeling I get when I read about a creepypasta or when I played Slenderman for the first time. That element of suspense. Waiting for the horror was the horror itself.

Now, I normally dull the horror for myself since I cover my eyes a lot. When we watched The Babadook on a flight, it was probably the most enjoyable horror film experience I have had: not only could I hardly hear the film over the engines, I could barely see it because of the glare of the lights and windows! It was a scaredy cat’s dream.

This time, I thought that the alcohol I had consumed would dull the horror of Insidious. I was gravely mistaken.

Despite the initial start of the film, the first 45 minutes of the movie was fine. My plan was working as I intended – I didn’t really process what was going on screen, so I wasn’t really remembering what was happening.

However, I started to surface from the inebriation right around the scene where Rose Bryne first realizes that something weird keeps happening at night. She kept getting up and down from the bed and the dread started to permeate my dreamlike state. Oh god, I thought, this is when things are going to start to get scary.

The absence of music and space between action acted as all too familiar paranoia. My stomach started to churn in fear.

But, unfortunately, there was more than fear that was churning.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I breathed, and I sprinted to the toilet. The horror of the unseen demon, the quiet dark nights, the alcohol. Everything had to be purged. Just like the demon had to be purged from the comatose demon-possessed boy.

For the rest of the movie, I was in a hellish haze of fear, paranoia, and nausea. Sometimes the fear distracted me from the nausea. Sometimes the nausea distracted me from the horrors of the film. Either way, I was caught in the middle of a horrific bender and my emotional reaction was only making it worse.

Did I stop? Did I cave in? Did I at least lie down after the third time I threw up? No. No I didn’t. Because that would be giving up. I had to prove to myself that I could do this, that I could watch a normal scary movie like every other normal person. I had to overcome two of my greatest fears: demons and vomiting.

My boyfriend insisted on helping and making sure that I was okay. I persisted and told him to not stop the movie. We were going to finish this.

By the end of the movie, I was an absolute mess. But I demanded that we finish; I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m pretty sure the scene in the kitchen with Patrick Wilson took us 30 minutes to watch.

But, at long last, we finished the movie. I did it!! I made it!!

Needless to say, the puking portion of the night was not close to being done.

I woke up with a nasty hangover the next morning, but at least I had an accomplished hangover. It was a productive intoxication.

Once I finally managed to get out of bed, my boyfriend and I sat down on the couch. He turned to me and said, “We’ll definitely have to watch the sequel at some point.”

Hearing that, my stomach turned a little, almost Pavlovian.

“Maybe later,” I said.

Sunset Years

April 20, 2017: 
I took Coco out last night at my parents’ apartment in Queens. 

New York was once my dream city and now I work here. I am 23-years-old and I am in a good place right now. I have achieved things in my life that I always dreamed about as a kid. I am fulfilling career goals by working in television. I found a stable place to live in New Jersey with my boyfriend who loves to have as much fun as I do. I am maintaining relationships with friends and new acquaintances. 

Walking along the river and looking at the skyline of Manhattan, I felt like it represented my current state in life.

But I didn’t think about that for long. All I could do is look down at the pug. In that moment, all of the love that I had in my heart was focused on the small animal that sat patiently in her stroller. My thoughts cleared from my normally noisy mind. All that mattered was setting her gently on the grass, clipping on her leash, and meandering across the small patch that we found. Together, we slowly walked with the lights of the city guiding our way.


July 9, 2017:
I am filled with a heaviness in my heart.

The first thing that I thought when I got the news two nights ago was, “but I just want to hold her one more time.” I literally felt like I had been hit with a bag of bricks. I sunk to my knees and sat on the floor. My brother Grant couldn’t even say it either. “It’s done, now,” is all he could say over the phone. “It’s done now.”

My dad was the one that took her to the hospital. My mom and Grant are in Chicago this weekend. Mom was able to see my sister Lucy this weekend, too, down in Champaign. I haven’t seen Dad in Long Island City yet, but I will soon. It’s a very palpable sense of grieving between us, even though my family is physically apart.

I’m on the train from Jersey now, going to the apartment. It’s going to feel weird without her there.


The last time that I took her out was at the end of May, when I stayed with the whole family for the weekend. I saw her for the last time this past Tuesday, but at that point, Mom and Dad were doing everything for her.

The last picture I have of her is “looking” out on the balcony, to the river. She’s sitting upright, mouth open in a smile. It was the strongest she had looked in a long time.


August 2, 2017:
It’s been nearly a month now and I still am hurting from it. Not because I’m thinking of how she was at the end, but because I’m remembering her more clearly for who she was when she was younger.

Coco was the perfect dog, the dog that I dreamed about when I was little. The first thing that I ever looked up on a computer was “pug.” It was also near the beginning of Wikipedia, so back then, I basically memorized the whole article page. I memorized the different types of pugs, how much they weighed, how they interacted with other dogs, how they interacted with humans, how long they lived. I saved all the of the pictures from the article onto the family computer’s desktop.

This was when I was in elementary school. My fifth grade teacher also had a pug, so she received an onslaught of pug doodles. She thought I was trying to butter her up, convince her to give me better grades, but it’s just that I couldn’t think of much else. 

School aside, I had even started a comic book with my cousin. It was titled “Minnie and Wolfgang,” a series of adventures by a pug named Minnie (my character) and a wolf named Wolfgang (my cousin’s character). 

I can’t even begin to describe how many pug stuffed animals I had and all of their individual names. But at one point, I had that memorized.

Then when I was in sixth grade, my aunt and uncle got a pug. Now my wanting was palpable. There was an actual pug in the family and we didn’t have one yet!!

My dad found a breeder and, despite the creepy interactions between the grandma pug and the litter, we deemed him to be a respectable pug owner. (Grandma seemed to get a little too close to the puppies).

I initially wanted the runt of the litter, but after the first time we met the breeder, she was taken. The only other girl pug was available to be adopted. When it was time to pick her up, I remember walking in the tiny house, looking over a kiddie pool where the pug puppies were scampering about. They had speckled black flecks across their tan coats, running around and licking each other. Their tails wagged as fast as a heartbeat. My parents gave the breeder his money and one of the tiny puppies was now ours.

On the ride home, I came up with the name “Coco” because of her black flecks on her back. She looked like cocoa.

The name lended itself to a great deal of nicknames over the years, including “Coco Pug,” “Coco Dog,” and “Cococococo,” (in honor of the Foster’s Home character, “Coco”). She was officially named “Coco Dunderman,” born May 1st, 2004.

There is a fantastic, lost picture of my siblings and I in the car right after we picked her up. I am wearing a pug t-shirt that I bought in Gulf Shores, my name airbrushed on the front. Lucy, Grant and I are sitting in a row with our new pug in my lap. At long last.

She had entered our life for good.

August 6, 2017:
It’s been a full month since Coco’s been gone. Although, if the story I am about to write ended differently, it would’ve been a lot longer of an absence.

The incident occurred when we decided to bring her to our family in Indiana for the first time. She sat in between Lucy and I. Grant sat in the backseat. Our usual places. She was surprisingly calm and contained during the car ride, the worst of her behavior being needy barking for Mom sitting up front. She always favored Lucy’s lap instead of my lap or her designated seat. Later in her life when we got a new car, she went to the back with Grant, the two travel buddies content on just relaxing. 

The problem arouse when we came to a rest stop. There was a grassy ditch alongside the highway that stretched out far and narrow. 

Lucy and I went to the bathroom first as Dad took her out. When we returned, we saw Mom with a panic in her eyes. 

“Coco just took off,” she said, as we walked closer to a group of onlookers near our car. “Dad and Grant started after her,” and then she left too. 

Lucy and I were shaken; we climbed into the car already crying. We closed the door and both sobbed in our seats. It was a foggy, hazy day, so we couldn’t see how far they had gone down the ditch. All we could do was look out at the cloudy day and cry.

“We lost our dog,” we said in between tears. “We lost Coco.”

It felt like an eternity before we saw them come back. Twenty minutes later, Dad was cradling Coco in his arms. Lucy and I began to cry out of relief.

Apparently, the ditch ended about a half mile away. Coco, with her abundant energy, ran the whole way to the end. She stopped, confused as to what to do, and one of the people from the rest stop who ran after her scooped her up in the knick of time.

We cried and hugged her the whole way to Indiana. She panted and whined for Mom, unfazed by the situation. 

Up until her last days, we always put a leash on her after that. 

October 5, 2017:
So, it’s been several months now. I have procrastinated with writing about her, not wanting to say goodbye.

But I need to say it. It may be rambling, but I must say it.

Goodbye, Coco. 

You were a member of the family. Not just a pet, not just a dog. You were our family. 

We’d always look at each other whenever it was the six of us all in a room, knowing that we all were here. It was a sense of home, completion, when everyone was sitting in the family room, watching a movie.

If Mom had made nachos, you’d be the first to reach for them. You’d jump up, perch your front paws on the edge of the coffee table and sniff intently. When you were a puppy, you quickly learned how to jump onto the chair and onto the table. Older, you were wiser. You learned the ways of begging. 

We’d always give you a stocking at Christmas and a special treat for you on your birthday. Boy, did you love your bacon. You’d get a bacon after we’d take you out, too.

I always complained about taking you out when I was younger, but the older we got, the less I complained. (You were adorable sitting in that stroller). Mom and Dad always teased me, mocked me saying, “oh, I always wanted a pug!!” I’d take you out immediately after, realizing my teenage angst.

It was the worst to take you out in the winter, I have to admit, because you’d take forever to poop. There were some nights when I think I waited a half hour. You’d be too busy sniffing the neighbor’s fence and jumping through the snow.

In those first, vibrant years, you’d yank hard on the leash if you saw another dog. Your strength was surprising; I’d have to hold you back as you did your half-bark-half-growl to the other doggie passerby. 

Even though I complained about taking you out to go potty, I never hesitated from a walk on a nice day. We’d normally just walk around the whole block. I’d talk to you as if you knew what I was saying. You were a friend to listen.

We only took you to the Dancing-in-the-Streets fest in our town’s little downtown once. You didn’t really have a lot of fun since it was too loud. But you always did love riding in the car. You could do it for hours and hours and hours. 

Everyone loved you when someone would come over to the house. And if we were ever holding a little band group party, we’d try to section you off sometimes, but you’d always manage to scamper down the stairs and join the fun.

You were always hilarious to hold. You squirmed after three seconds being off the ground. And you fit into our arms awkwardly like a honey baked ham.

In addition to the squirming, you also hated any form of dog clothing. Halloween costume? Forget about it. That’s why when I see some of the Doug the Pug posts, I get sad. Not because I miss you (I do), but because Doug probably squirmed just as much as you. We never really wanted to make you feel forced.

You were a little plump, but not a fat pug. You were stocky and muscular with a beautiful smooth coat. I’d always brag saying you could’ve been a pug in one of my calendars.

I’d sometimes draw cartoons of you during school.

You were one of those pugs that had a burst of energy once in a blue moon. The “pug sprint,” as some people call it. You’d do this in the family room, you’d do this when we’d go to the pond house in Indiana, jubilantly running in circles if you touched the slightest bit of water.

Annie the pug (my uncle and aunt’s pug) always loved seeing you, and the two of you would walk side by side the whole time that we’d stay in Indy. Sometimes the two of you would eat too much of each other’s food.

When you were both old and grey, you’d still be side by side, sleeping in your respective beds.

I think one of the hardest things to watch in those lost last few months was you walking slowly, limping in your step. 

I’m happy that I dog sat you during this past spring. Two separate weeks of time just with you. It was difficult the second time. You weren’t really okay. I remember taking you to the vet thinking, “God, please don’t let me be the one to have to do this.” 

When you did pass, one of the doorman asked about you. He hadn’t seen you for awhile. Everyone knew you from your doggy stroller. The kids that’d get in the elevator with us would be so excited that a puppy was in the stroller! You made people happy right until the end.

When I was in high school, I felt guilty about leaving you all day. But, as a pug, you seemed happy in your sleep. 

You’d sleep anywhere, often on top of the sofa cushions. The funniest is when you and Dad would sleep the same way on the couch, often in front of the TV playing a movie. 

It was just so nice to pet you. It was nice to see you smile, even though I knew it was just you panting. It was so animated, the way you’d look at people. And you’d wag your tail only if you were really happy, so it always felt special. You made us feel good.

If I ever came home from school distraught and crying, you always knew. You always knew if I was having a bad day.

I’d walk in the front door and set down my backpack, exhausted from the day. I needed to cry. I just needed a hug.

You’d pitter patter over and sit in front of me, and I’d sit down. You didn’t normally lick people (instead, you sneezed in people’s faces), but if I was sad, you’d lick my face. You’d let me hug you lightly and I’d cry into your fur. I would instantly feel better.

You lived in New York for about a year before you passed away. I got into the mindset of getting excited to visit my parents in Queens, thinking, “and I get to see Coco!” I still have those thoughts. 

Each person in the family had their own interaction with you. Everybody was different. Everybody was special. But you were forever Mom’s “baby.” 

I remember being worried at the end of high school about if you would pass on while I was in college. But I’m so happy we were able to have those last months with you in Queens. 

You were part of our home. You are the home in our hearts.

One my favorite last memories of you was one of the times that I took you out in Queens. There was sunset and the sky was a canvas filled with colors. It was breathtaking. I wheeled the stroller over to a patch of grass and sat you down. When you were old, you didn’t take long to go potty. But I always liked staying out there a little longer with you. 

I was looking at the Manhattan skyline across the river and you were sitting on the sidewalk. You seemed at peace, not whimpering, not panting. Just sitting and looking at the sunset. Well, most of your eyesight was gone at that point, but I knew that you could still see the different shades of light. 

I realized that you were in your sunset years, and in that moment, you seemed perfectly fine with it.

That moment brings me peace.

I think about when I was a kid and how I wanted a pug so badly. And you ended up being part of how we turned out as people.

Goodbye, Coco. Thank you. We love you.

Declare the pennies on your (crying) eyes

People have a lot of gripes about growing up, but something that you really have to experience for yourself is how routine your life becomes once you graduate college. If you have a job and a lease, then there isn’t really any drastic fluctuation, unless a huge life-altering event happens. This is contrasted by college, where a best friend getting a boyfriend could alter the course of your bar-hopping scene.

With adult life, this is not so much the case. I’ve been dating my boyfriend for a year and a half, but even when I was single and employed, I quickly realized how little I was seeing my friends compared to college life. Even when I was an intern, I would see my friends almost every day in the city. 

But it’s just that. We were interns. Interns have programs and have their hands held. When you have a job, you need to figure shit out. Not everyone, unfortunately, that you hold dear is going to stay near. People will live in different boroughs, different states, different parts of the country. Or, even if they live a town over, their lives could be on a completely different schedule than yours.

Another part of this increasingly sense of established routine is that my crying outbursts have, well, been not as eventful. Or if I do cry, it’s about something legitimate, which, for writing purposes, is boring if it isn’t a tragic event. Crying about trying to work out a new lease? An understandable thing to be stressed about, but who wants to read about signing forms and going to the bank for a cashier’s check? It’s just not as fun as a dog eating my muffing during class.

But, saying that, despite the “adultness” surrounding my life, the flame of innocent hysteria has never gone out (ask my boyfriend or my family). I still have my eccentric thought process and racing mind. I still intake stimulus very fully and react just as equally fully. And, sometimes, like last night, I revert to an emotionally younger sense of self.

This year was the first year that I at least participated in my taxes. My dad always did them, but I marked “doing your taxes” as the final stage to becoming an adult (hence the hesitation, I didn’t want to give up my youthful sensibility). But, now that I am living a more adult experience (still am on my parent’s health care, though), I figured, “Hey, now is the time to do it, right?”

Dad walked me through the process, which was surprisingly not too overwhelming. We used Turbo Tax and the step-by-step program was easy to navigate. I plugged in the info and after about a half hour, we were done! There! I did it! I was now officially an adult (kinda)!

I forgot about it for a week and then last night, in bed, my eyes flew open and there I was, my mind going a million miles an hour 

I had committed tax fraud.

I had committed tax fraud.

I must’ve forgotten some detail. I was sure if it. I couldn’t think of anything, but I probably did something wrong.  

There was no way around it. I was going to get audited. Kyle’s best friend did audits and he probably would think that it was fraud too. I was living a lie. My parents would have to deal with the horrors of me behind bars. I had failed them.

I immediately called my brother.

Who was younger than me and had never done taxes.

“Claire… the IRS isn’t going to care if your forgot a small thing. You did your taxes with Dad. You’re okay, you need to sleep.”

It didn’t matter that it was my brother. At this point, people who know me well enough have adapted to my Mom’s Narrative. This is the line of sayings one needs to iterate to me when I am having a patented Claire Moment. Grant took on the role of Mom in that moment.

“You’re fine.”

“Claire. You’re fine,” is what people sequentially said to me the next day when they woke up to my frantic texts.

When the anxiety dust settled, I had to laugh at myself. In a strange way, I was relieved. I thought that now that I was an adult, my worrying was now all legitimate and I had no safety net. But asking your brother about your taxes that your dad helped you to complete? I realized that the safety net was still there. Not everything I worry about is going to make or break me. The situations were just a little different.

Sarcastic diagnosis and emotional growth

The time had come for me to get a checkup. These past recent months I had been having anxiety symptoms manifest themselves as physical symptoms, such as tingling.
As I walked into the doctor’s office, I was handed a form that was a packet of questions about my health. There were checkboxes and lines for listing symptoms and I was in heaven. At last I was going to get it all out, to release my inner demons onto page instead of in a text that would surely get the response: “No, Claire, it’s not a blood clot.”
I felt like I was back in high school filling out my European AP written exam – everyone else hated it, but I relished it. I wrote side comments to the checkboxes and questions in the comments section. I went to town.
After forty minutes of scribbling my symptoms away, I waited and eventually got called to go in the room.
You can imagine the appointment being a fairly regular experience. I was nervous but I kept my cool, and I talked a mile a minute listing off everything that had been worrying me.
My doctor, like everyone else, rolled her eyes at me.
“You’re twenty-two,” she said in her Eastern European accent. “You can handle everything. I wish I was feeling what you’re feeling.”
But, she wasn’t cold with me as she explained the ways I could reduce stress in my life.
“If you drink a lot, maybe your body doesn’t like alcohol,” she said. “Then just stop drinking, it’s okay.”
Obviously she had just met me.
As I was finishing my checkup, she told me that I was going to get my blood drawn. I tensed up, thinking about the incident with the IV. She left the room and I waited, controlling my breathing and sitting. My memory of waiting for the IV to be inserted and then my crying and the oral doctor getting angry at me only was beginning to manifest as the medical assistant came into the room.
“Hi, I just want you to know that I get nervous with things like this,” I said immediately.
She played along with making small talk about the city and even though I kept my focus on the ceiling, I looked down at her getting the kit ready.
“I’m not going to look,” I said.
“No, don’t look,” she said.
As she put the needle in, I stopped mid-sentence, feeling elated and my smile spreading across my face.
“I’m doing it!” I exclaimed. “Oh this is such a big thing for me, I had a panic attack when I tried getting my wisdom teeth out last year and this means that I can do it!”
I was getting choked up with hope and pride, feeling as if I could conquer the world.
“That’s very good,” the medical assistant said motherly.
Once she finished up I did feel a bit light-headed (getting worked up over my medical accomplishments) and as I put my head down on the cot, I laughed and giggled and breathed easier and deeper, relief allowing me to relax my muscles and mind.
I signed out and left the building, knowing that I had done something that everyone has to do, and something that was very easy to do. But the mind can trick us into thinking there’s some dark narrative about to be written about our lives. Today I wasn’t reading that book.