“I hope you don’t personally know anyone affected,” my retail mom said, with that concerned-from-a-mountaintop look surgeons use when they’re giving bad news but they don’t want to hug. “My husband died from a medulloblastoma,” I lied, and she came down the mountain in what appeared to be genuine sympathy. She must have realized she was going to have to hug. “My intuition homed in on a sad aura around you,” she whispered into my hair while hugging me. “I am sad,” I agreed and became preoccupied with the thought that she might spot errant gristle nestled in my bun. Despite the most herculean of hygienic efforts, it’s funny where you’ll find tissue—your hair, the corner of your lips, in your bra. “When did you last make the space for self-care?” she pressed on. “I can’t mourn my dead husband with pedicures or spa treatments,” I protested. No, no, that’s not what she meant, but she could let me in on her secret if I was interested. Her secret, she continued without waiting to find out if I was interested, was to take one ordinary action—pouring a glass of water, or peeling an orange—and slow it down, slow it way down until it becomes almost unbearably beautiful, then recite to herself, “I am alive.” It’s a trick of your nervous system that speeds along the process of allowing psychic wounds to heal. In response I said something like, “I guess I am going to buy the sparkly green dress that brings out all the not-green in my eyes for the totally legitimate brain cancer dance.”

DID YOU TAKE THE ADVICE OF THE DEPARTMENT STORE REINCARNATION OF YOUR MOTHER?

I wore that emerald gown out of the store, and I was wearing it when I bought a case of cheap sauvignon blanc, setting the alcohol on top of my balled-up scrubs in the passenger seat, and when I got home, I wore the emerald gown as I uncorked a bottle and slowly, ever so slowly, poured the liquid into a glass and took a sip. Conclusion: I felt the same amount of boring PTSD. Operating in the emerald gown would be so glamorous, I mused, provided I had matching hairnet and face mask accessories also studded with emeralds. Wouldn’t it be fun to cut into a brain, adorn it with gems, and then cover that diadem back up with the patient’s skull? A surgeon could remove a tumor but replace it with a sapphire or ruby. The emerald gown and I let the golden retriever out to take a shit in the middle of the driveway, then the golden retriever, the gown, and I lay in bed, where I drank the rest of the opened wine. Since my husband killed himself, the golden retriever sleeps on his side while the dog bed on the floor remains empty and disgusting. That dog bed has probably been disgusting for a while, but only now that the dog no longer uses it do I find the dog bed beyond repulsive.