This was Not Fine

In my world, December 2025 went missing.

It was last seen wearing good intentions, smelling faintly of cinnamon, pine, productivity, and personal fulfillment. I was expecting magic.
Leisurely. Cozy. Special.

I had plans. Big ones.

With my professional book projects wrapped, I was going to write for me… my own work, my own voice, my own damn book. I was going to reset my office, purge drawers that hadn’t been opened since the Obama administration, cook actual food, decorate for the holidays, take walks like a functioning human.

Instead, my December said: absolutely the fuck not.

Instead of magic, December delivered three surgeries and a level of discomfort that made both sitting and walking feel like repeated acts of punishment. I spent most of the month lying on my side in bed, bingeing truly terrible true-crime documentaries… every one made by someone with a drone, a podcast mic, and zero ethics. I will now never again enter an elevator, walk down a quiet sidewalk, hail a taxi, board a cruise ship, or trust anyone named “Mark.” Murder is everywhere. At least Netflix was trying to tell me that.

Comfort being scarce, I ate it. I gained nearly twelve pounds. Not from cookies or festive dinners, but from my two new best friends: Häagen and Dazs. Preferably chocolate. Always chocolate. December was less deck the halls and more clear the freezer, stand the fuck back and don’t ask questions.

Christmas never arrived during my December.

No tree. No cookies. No holiday dinner. In between my procedures and pain, I had nothing left to either decorate or celebrate. The only seasonal activity I managed was mailing cheerful Christmas cards – which told tiny tales about our lovely year… all while my actual life lay sideways in bed.

Now that I think about it, my December wasn’t really lost.
It was just taken hostage.
By my own body.
Again….
Because my kidneys staged a hostile takeover and ran the entire month.

Here’s the plot twist: as a child, I had corrective surgery for what’s called a double collecting system. Translation: extra ureters. Most people have one per kidney. I have two on each side. Four total. Because apparently my body enjoys extra parts I don’t need or upgrades I didn’t authorize.

I was told the surgery fixed it. Case closed.
I rarely thought about it, since my body didn’t bother to contradict that story.

Until December 1, when I found out that all four ureters were still very much present and accounted for… nearly sixty-four years after I thought I understood my own body. A kidney stone we’d been casually monitoring throughout the past year turned out to be hiding in one of those extra ureters no one thought existed. That discovery kicked off a month of mapping, stents, surgeries, and a truly disrespectful amount of pain. And learning.

The thing was, I was already so fucking tired of learning.

In 2024, I learned my uterus, normally the size of an inverted pear, had grown a plum-sized tumor. Rare. Aggressive. Cancer.

I fucking hate plums.

Then I learned about hysterectomies, chemo, radiation, ports, lymph nodes, staging, hair loss, neuropathy, mouth sores, life expectancy, and digestive issues that were constant and unforgiving. Plus bonus material: allergic reactions, multiple hospitalizations, blood transfusions. Blah blah blah……

Eight months of learning.
About pain.
About loss.
About what the human body can tolerate.
About how betrayal feels when it comes from inside your own skin.

In 2025, I learned how to heal.
Slowly. With more patience than I ever knew I had.
I worked again. Traveled. Lived. I learned how to exist beyond survival. It felt good.

And then December showed up with a pop quiz and a ransom note.

It was toward the end of December when I had the dream.

I saw myself bleeding from tiny cuts on my arms… cuts I didn’t even know I had. Blood ran down my skin. I was surprised, apologetic. Everyone around me kept saying You’re fine! You look great! You got this! Good for you!

Here’s what I learned that my dream was telling me:
I’d been symbolically “bleeding” all month. Quietly. Politely. From a thousand small wounds of procedures, pain, fear, prescription meds, and exhaustion that almost felt like surrender after a long battle. I told almost no one. I minimized it.

I’d heard those same voices throughout the past two years of cancer treatment and recovery… normalizing pain, applauding silence, teaching me how to endure instead of respond. And over time, I no longer needed those voices: I’d learned them well enough to ignore my own self.

But my dream wasn’t agreeing with the voices.
This time, it was telling me to call bullshit.

To stop listening to others and start listening to myself.
Because this was not fine.

Bleeding quietly isn’t noble.
And pain doesn’t become healthy just because you don’t complain or tell others about it – or that they minimize it.

Big learning point there.
Total. Fucking. Mic. Drop.

Now with December finally behind me and my kidneys returning to some semblance of normal, I’m busy trying to make peace with my body instead of ignoring it, or at least glaring at it angrily from across the room. With fewer assumptions. Clearer boundaries. And fuckloads more listening.

So the next time my body talks to me, I’ll hear it, before the “bleeding” begins.
And not let anyone – especially myself – tell me it’s fine.