The Bloody Doors Off

There’s a website, called Post Secret. (It’s hosted on WordPress, btw.)

People — thousands of people — mail their anonymous secrets, on a decorated postcard, to Frank Warren, the founder of this project.

It’s spawned a Ted Talk, tours of college campuses.

I often wondered if I had something buried so deep, that the only way I could confess is to do so anonymously, and see if it appears on the website.

And I do.

But I’ve spilled the tea on a fair amount since I started this blog in 2013. (Okay, I created it before that, but I didn’t actively use this page until after I was released from lockdown in Ward H at Michael Garron hospital.

(And no, I’m not gonne recap this here as a “previously in Koster’s fucked up past”. Go to the archives.}

A have a superficial secret.

When I walk Maisie late at night, we turn down a narrow walkway between two nearby buildings. There are exhaust vents there and, if you stand in just the right spot, you’ll be rewarded with a calming breeze.

For me, anyway. This has always been the case for me, since I was a child.

Standing still, ambient sounds of distant cars and pedestrians drift in and out of focus. And I can free my mind. For just a few moments, enter a crystal palace of my making that doesn’t have to face the fact that my nearly 18-year old cat, Izzy, doesn’t have a growth in her abdomen, either attached to her spleen or her liver.

Either way, it sucks. We were explained several scenarios, from foregoing surgery and be cognizant of specific behaviour/actions should/when the mass ruptures. We could get an ultrasound (perhaps) to see exactly where the mass it, what its size is, and what unlucky organ it’s attached to.

Or there’s surgery. They can biopsy the tumor (it’s an unknown mass, what if it’s a tumor) and look for cancer and treat appropriately. (It’s easier if it’s the spleen; and A LOT of money if it’s the liver (this would require a specialist).

None of that matters in a few brief seconds in a walkway, enough light to keep the dark at bay.

In that moment.

I am not in pain. Physically (recent sciatica week, walking impossible sitting and standing accompanied by excruciating pain), mentally. Emotionally.

Christ, I’m a mess right now.

I need sleep.

Goodnight, Missus Izzy, Mama Izzy, Isabella Grace Koster.

See you in the morning?

The sweetest, cuddliest cat in the world. Izzy used to sit on my chest whenever I was seated on the couch. Which is a lot.