Becca is a chronically-ill lady, writes on health, humanity, and what it truly means to be alive. She invites you into her unique world, and the imagination, that comes with being stuck in bed. The world may be still, but words keep moving.
The Truth of Being Adopted
I keep a bunny in a bag in my desk drawer. There is a bunny in a bag inside a square little drawer, a childhood memory tucked away like a textbook that has been forgotten to be used. She sits there like a memento from a time when I believed in the person that gave her to me.
When I was young my favorite season with Christmas, not even because of the presents, but because of the mountains of sugar I got to create. My grandmother is southern in her soul and we made every cookie and cake a person could think of. This love of baking became instilled in me and I was named the family baker from a young enough age my Mom was terrified to let me do it alone. I learned and created until I found the best ways to make some magic out of dough. In High School I would bring a new type of cookie invention to school once a week and hand it out to the other students in my cross-cultural class.
The Day I Lost 'Her'
When I was a child I would look up through the trees and wonder if God was looking back at me. A blonde braid down my back, and some spare change in my pocket, I skipped through the autumn air jingling away. It felt very grown up to be without my parents for an hour or two. I was always a Wendy Darling, wishing to grow up.
When I was eight years old my father told me that we had money problems and so I brought him my piggy bank. What was only pennies and dimes to most were riches to me? Even with what meagre savings I had to offer, it was offered nonetheless. My father looked like he was going to cry.
Mr. Darcy's Day Out
Comfort animals are used to bring comfort to a wide range of chronic and mentally ill people. Due to the fact that this privilege is often taken for granted by those who don't suffer from such illnesses, new rules and regulations have come into place. In order to better understand the process of traveling with ones comfort animal, I am going to map out some tips based on my own personal experiences.
Let There Be Light
The place was akin to a terrestrial purgatory. When I eventually gained the courage to trudge up to the abandoned reception desk and shakily sign my name and the time in a binder with crumpled pages, I shivered under the atmosphere that enveloped me. There was some semblance of peace in the quiet, but I was also greeted by icy tendrils of despair.
When the Abyss Stares Back
Ever since I was a child, I have been afflicted with what I have recently dubbed “the horror gene.” It runs in my mother’s side of the family and skips a generation. My maternal grandfather had it; the varying four-foot tall stacks of horror films in his house certainly attested to that. Now, I have him to thank, for that very same morbid fascination with darkness and fear is in my own blood.
Absent, Not Gone
“It’s you and me against the world.” Those were the words my grandfather would often utter when I padded downstairs to kiss him goodnight. He was a quiet man who rarely indulged in idle conversation, let alone humor, but when he saw my face framed with messy hair, his brown eyes seemed to glow. He would smile for me. I would hoard his abrupt chuckles like a dragon would gold.
Mr. Darcy and Me
For perhaps the first time in my life, this piece is not an ode to Mr. Darcy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. While my Mr. Darcy was given the namesake because of my favorite novel, he is a hero in his own right. Nearly three years ago when I suddenly became very sick I thought that I would suddenly get better. However, that was far from the case. Fast forward through at least ten doctors, six hospitals, fifty-plus medications, six CT scans, two universities, more tests than I can count, and I am still sick. My journey is an ongoing one, it is wrought with fear, sadness, and a very deep loneliness.
The Wishing Hour
Night falls around me like a bitter blanket. The air is hot with pre-summer melancholy and reeks of restlessness. Lying in bed is a game of catch and release— close my eyes and try to catch a few more hours of sleep, and release when the attempts fail.