Buckle up, Bitch

A year ago April, my life did that thing where it grabs you by the throat, shakes you awake mid-nap, and says, “Buckle up, bitch!”

I was actually napping. Innocently, blissfully napping. My then-16-year-old son, who apparently moonlights as a psychic EMT, called me and thought I sounded off. He immediately panicked, alerted my ex, and they rushed over to find me mid-seizure.

So, naturally, they did the whole ambulance thing, and I woke up three days later like, “What in the actual hell just happened?” And then I heard the words “brain tumor,” which felt about as absurd as being told I had a tail. I mean — a brain tumor? I’ve never had a migraine. Hell, I don’t even get headaches.

At first, I just laughed. Because of course. Of course I’d wind up with something like this. “Really, Jill? A brain tumor? Why not just spontaneously combust and save everyone the paperwork?”

And then the other shoe dropped: Glioblastoma. Stage four. Always with the drama, Jill.

So, here we are; The past year’s been a real party. I’ve had chemo, radiation and three brain surgeries. Next up, I head to Germany for a vaccine trial they don’t offer here, because why fight cancer when you can also battle jet lag and Lufthansa snacks?

I leave on Saturday, so please cross your fingers for me and I'll keep you posted!

new hair, who dis?