Good Afternoon you harvesty lovelies.

I was going to wait until the end of the month to write this. Doing so would have done two things that I enjoy very much - 1. It would have let me be able to follow the rules (Newsletter delivered on the last Monday of every month!) and more importantly, 2. It would have given me time to wrap up all my thoughts in a very pretty, slightly detached, inspirational bow.

But I don’t know… I think I want to … well, I want to write the thing I needed a few days ago. The part that’s harder to talk about because it’s too fucking scary, or just … the words are not as eloquent and thought out. It’s messy and noisy - it’s the THROUGH part of the “the only way out is through.” So here we go:

This past Friday, I was diagnosed with uterine cancer.

It came out of fucking nowhere, and as is the way with cancer - its “symptoms” present as something wildly innocuous and banal. It’s --- as if you’ve spent the last year hearing passing horse hooves outside your house, only to one day go take a look and it’s been a herd of unicorns the whole time. Shock doesn’t begin to cover it.

And that paradox permeates everything – that every day-ness of life is now peppered with the kind of terror that lives so deep in your body, that your brain can’t even process it – you just notice you’re shaking from fear as you try to find your pajamas. You cry at weird times, emotionally shut down in doctor’s offices and repeat back your diagnosis like it’s a Starbucks order. You are a stranger to yourself in every sense of the word.

But the beauty. Dear god the beauty. The beauty of Your People - watching them love you, embrace you, fight for you - it both brings you to tears, but also... goddamn, do you hate to see them so worried. You wish more than anything that the thing they were rallying around was something a little more wonderful. You wish they could have their lives back… or that… their eyes weren’t so scared when they look at you. You almost want to get better just to free your loved ones from being trapped on Shitbag Island with you and your 3.4 cm dipshit tumor.

But, there is a plan and I’m in the best hands possible - the City of Hope is the best of the best and my oncologist is truly spectacular. On Monday when we first met with him, the first thing he said when he walked in was, “This is curable” and my mom blurted out, “WE WERE SCARED SHITLESS!” and he coolly responded, “I get that a lot in here.”

My surgery is on the 17th – I’m definitely scared, but I just keep imagining the holidays where I’m all better and surrounded by family and friends - no more worried eyes - the wafting smells of fresh baked wine cake permeate the house, and the Muppet Christmas Carol is playing on the TV.

Until then, I’ll just take it one day at a time.

To that end, I’m going to take a short hiatus with this Newsletter for the rest of the year - coming back in January, 2022. I want to focus all my energy on getting better and also… to writing this book. Now more than ever - I just want to write.

Liza Palmer’s Newsletter

The Through