Mojo and the Mess

… Six weeks after writing the initial “holding on to me”

Update 🌙

Lately, I’ve started feeling some new symptoms. It’s scary, and I won’t pretend it hasn’t been heavy. But I’m still here — still laughing, still finding light in the mess, still making the best of the time I have.

Some days are harder now, but they’re still mine. And I’m still holding on — to me, to love, and to every moment that feels like living.

The day I heard the words “it’s in your brain” something inside me cracked wide open. I don’t know if I’ll ever put the pieces back together.

It’s not just fear of what’s growing inside my skull. It’s the fear of losing who I am. My memories, my thoughts, the way I laugh too loud at the wrong moments, the way I tease Pete or remember Biggie’s snore, the way I can put words on a page and make someone else feel less alone. What if that’s the first thing the cancer takes?

The Questions That Haunt Me

I find myself questioning everything:

Am I still me if I forget the names of the people I love? Am I still me if I can’t write, if the words don’t come? Am I still me if I sit in a stadium with my best friend and can’t follow the game, if I ride on the back of Pete’s bike and don’t remember the road we’ve driven a hundred times?

And then there’s a darker fear. What if it doesn’t just steal my memory, but my personality? What if it twists the parts of me people love most?

What if I become someone short-tempered, bitter, or cruel without even realizing it? The idea that I could look at Pete—the man who has stood by me through every scan, every surgery, every sleepless night—and snap at him, or speak to him like he’s a burden, makes me sick to my stomach.

What if I hurt the people I love without knowing it?

What if I become someone they can’t even recognize, not because of how I look, but because of how I act?

The Invisible Battlefield

It’s terrifying to realize that my identity isn’t just housed in my body—it’s housed in my brain. And my brain has become a battlefield.

Every headache feels like a warning. Every dizzy spell feels like a glimpse of what’s coming. Every migraine feels like a thief knocking at the door.

Sometimes I cry not because I’m dying, but because I’m petrified of not being myself while I’m still alive.

Cancer already took so much: my body, my energy, my sense of safety. But brain mets? They threaten to take the very essence of me.

What I’m Clinging To

And so I sit with these questions I can’t answer.

Will I still be Izzy if my memories fade? Will Pete still see his wife in the woman sitting across from him? Will Mojo still curl against me when I no longer recognize the sound of his paws? Will I still be lovable if my brain rewires me into someone I don’t even know?

I don’t know. And maybe that’s the cruelest part—there’s no scan that can tell me how much of me I get to keep.

But for today, I’m still here.

I still remember my husband’s laugh.

I still know the lyrics to our song.

I still feel Mojo’s weight pressed into my side.

I still get to write these words.

And maybe clinging to those pieces—fragile as they are—is the only way to stay myself for as long as I can.

A Plea to the Ones I Love

So if one day the words don’t come out right, or my mood hardens into something that doesn’t sound like me, please know—it’s not who I am, it’s what the cancer has taken.

Please remember the girl who loved fiercely, laughed loudly, and found beauty even in the middle of the mess.

Please remember me as I am now, even if I can’t always hold onto her myself.

Mojo’s POV 🐾

Hi, it’s me, Mojo. Mom worries about changing, but I want you to know something: she will always be my mom. Even if her words get jumbled, even if her moods get stormy, even if the cancer tries to hide her smile—I’ll still see her. I’ll still curl against her, still guard her, still love her.

To me, she’ll never be anything but the best part of my world.

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