Barbara Lockwood - Frontal Matter - Glue Gone Wild

By Suzanne Samples

Edited by Barbara Lockwood

Text copyright 2018 Running Wild Press

All rights reserved.

Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com.

Educators, librarians, book clubs (as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com for teaching tools.

ISBN 978-1-947041-24-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-947041-25-7 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018959806

Printed in the United States of America.

There is a chance I will write this and I will live.

There is a greater chance I will write this and I will die a few months later.

I have a grade IV glioblastoma in the left frontal lobe of my brain.

Brain. Fucking. Cancer.

I have accepted this, maybe. I have understood this, potentially. I have sucked my secrets onto these pages and given you a glimpse at my surprise brain cancer, my likely end.

Something random about me: I really like keys.

Something about brain cancer in the frontal lobe: it causes attention span problems.

I also really like commas in compound sentences, but sometimes I refuse to use them for some sort of dramatic effect. I have no idea how my writing professors would feel about this, although many of them sent me lovely cards and well wishes while I was sequestered in the sick, sterile hospital for about a month.

During Christmas and New Years, of all times.

I am fucked.

I am so fucked.

I was fine.

Healthy.

Christmas presents loaded in my car, ready to be joined by me and my pets for a six-hour ride to West Virginia for the holidays.

Everything was fine.

And then everything went to shit within twenty minutes.

Everything.

Some coffee, a seizure, a CT scan, an emergency room doctor whispering there is a mass on your brain. We dont know what it is yet. Youre being transported to Winston-Salem immediately.

He was holding my hand, and I was screaming. Crying. Panicked. Screaming fuck oh my god fuck.

I did not cry again until I fell on the dingy blue bathroom floor of the neurology unit when I was supposed to be asleep after my craniotomy.

Troublemaker, free spirit, rogue.

There is a chance I will write this and I will live and piss off everyone who reads these words.

In a way, a terminal diagnosis of brain cancer in my left frontal lobe means I just dont care about pleasing people anymore. Like Plath in Tulips, there is a simultaneous emptiness and freedom that allows me to feel as if I can say anything, do anything, and no one can prevent me from showing my soul, just like I exposed my brain, my innermost parts, to that neurosurgery team in Winston-Salem.

Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

Sometimes people call it The Dash.

I learn this, bored one night before surgery, in my room at the neuro unit.

It should actually be a hyphenWikipedia notes this.

If I live: there is a chance my friends and family might hate me for these words. There is a greater chance, I hope, that they will understand how honest writing is good writing.

This is the phrase I preach to my students more than any other.

Honest writing is good writing.

The reverse works as well.

Good writing is honest writing.

I have to do this, I have to write this, I have to tell everyone.

Please take this key, unlock my ear, and twist.

I am still here.

I am still waiting.

I am still writing

I am still alive, right now.

Feeney and I had a misunderstanding.

Feeney: my friend, my gym buddy, my confidant.

I met Feeney through my roller derby team. Her quiet confidence, her genius in the kitchen, her willingness to help anyone in need, her terrible dad jokes, and her uncanny ability to react in medical emergencies that made me smile and feel safe in her presence. My other teammates and I joked that her shoulders were so ripped they deserved their own Facebook page. Feeney and I were teammates, friends, and single women with dogs who did not enjoy minding us or listening to our commands. We went to the gym together, enjoyed finding good food in Boone, and had deep conversations about how our love lives were complete shitbut we werent quite that old yet so maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

But something went awry, something went weird.

I hurt her because I said something I shouldnt have, let my awkwardness take over when I should have stayed quiet and let the moment pass like just another gust of wind down Boone, North Carolinas King Street during that record cold December.

My questions now: can I blame that moment on my frontal lobe? Or did I just make a mistake? What do you think, my new friend, my tumor? Did you play a part in this relationship mishap, or was that all SZ, all me?

I missed Feeney while we werent communicating.

You probably missed her, too.

I planned to leave town and visit my parents on December 18th: Feeneys birthday. The night before, I panicked after dinner. I wanted to glue my loose ends together before leaving town, and there were so many. I could fix this misunderstanding with Feeney, if only I could release my stubbornness and just say Im so sorry for being an asshole. I knew she would forgive me because she was Feeney. She was sweet and considerate.

I knew she missed me as well. I knew she would want to get back to the gym, back to our lives, back to drinking coffee out of the Esteban the Elephant mug at Melanies, our favorite breakfast spot.

Hey, I texted her. Im sorry. I miss you.

She wanted to talk the next morning before I left town. Early. Her birthday. The day final grades were due. I had all of my grades turned in except for three students who needed extra time to finish their writing portfolios, so I packed the night before and planned to finish the grades before she showed up at the coffee shop where we agreed to meet.

You were with me the whole time, tumor, but I had no idea.

I should have never felt lonely, never felt isolated or unloved.

When you and I show up to the coffee shop, tumor, we listen to a Bible study group discuss how Mary felt before delivering Jesus on Christmas Day. Naturally, I have so many issues with thissure, I believe in Jesus, but there is no way he was actually born on December 25th, and I do not think for a moment that any of these Bible study people have a clue what Mary felt when schlepping around the supposed world savior through some poorly-lit-night-sky-desert- excursion.

But whatever.

There is one guy, a guy you and I call The Philosopher, who keeps yammering about how the words witness and testimony basically mean the same thing, ya know in Hebrew, but you and I have no reference for this. The Bible study group believes him but seems annoyed that he cares so much about two words when the other group members want to talk about baby Jesus and nativities smelling of Carolina pines and how someone stole forty bucks from one of the ladies earlier that morning.

Feeney and I work through our misunderstanding almost immediately.

You gave me no headaches, tumor.

No blurry vision.

The worst you did: presented me with a possessed leg that interrupts the shit out of that Bible study.

Our Father who art I think I have a Charlie horse in heaven hallowed be thy name I dont understand why its moving up my leg oh my god thy kingdom come thy will be done oh my god it wont stop moving up my leg as earth as it is Jesus Christ oh my god my entire side my arm my hip