In the days between soccer games, we decide to do some sight-seeing in the Old City of Jerusalem. RHJ has done this many times before – most recently, just before I arrived in town – but he arranges a tour without complaint.

We visit the City’s different quarters; we make our way towards the Western Wall; I am there to place prayers in the cracks for the friends who have sent them on to me but I am hesitant in offering up my own written prayer. This feels too familiar; too much like the Tibetan Bells at that Monastery in China nine years ago. There, you could tell your prayer to the monk and he’d write it on the clapper of a clay bell, then the freshly made ornament would be hung in the temple’s gazebo until it disintegrated or was smashed. That was how your wish was supposed to come true – in the breaking down part.

Back then, I had gone to the Far East to rid myself of my longing for Frederic and I prayed on the bells that he and I would be happy together, ever after. Not since my high school sweetheart had I wanted anyone as much as I wanted Freddy; never had I loved any complicated, complete man the way I adored him. But we were both flawed people in the middle of messy divorces and I’m not sure we could help ourselves, even if we could have seen what we were doing to each other. So now I make it a point not to wish or pray with that kind of specificity.

As I am lost in thought about wishes and prayers, our tour guide takes us around the Old City’s sights, and eventually we reach the plaza where the Western Wall is located. By this point in our trip, I have come from the camino in Spain; through the portal of the Cathedral of Santiago; by way of a late night argument at the Old Train Station in Jerusalem; up, down, over, around, and through the football fields at Bayit Vegan. I am an exhausted and unlikely pilgrim who is Just Hanging On; trying to rid herself of longing for certainty and stability and embrace the mess of the moment. I am trying to Become Whole; I am trying not to lose my head, and yet, at the same time, do exactly that.

Men’s and women’s prayers are separate at the Wall, and our tour guide waits with me as I approach on the women’s side – first, to write out the few words I want to say; and then to place them inside the cracks. After I am done, we retreat back into the plaza where men and women can mingle.

We leave the square, and we finish walking around the Old City. We start to head out towards the Tower of David and Jaffa Gate. It is then that I realise where we are; where I am. We had entered the City just down the hill a bit, in the Armenian quarter. And now, we are walking past the Cathedral of Saint James – the site of the Martyrdom of James the Greater – where inside the Sanctuary, Saint James’s head is buried under the altar beneath a red marble slab.

In a flash, I see that I have traced the steps of the body in reverse – I have come from the Cathedral of Santiago in Spain where the body is entombed, to the Cathedral of Saint James in Jerusalem, where everything happened. I found the heart before the head; I found Santiago before Saint James – the vulgar before the Greater; the remote mission before the home base.

I am so obsessed with doing things perfectly; in order – in things making sense. But here I am, having completed this voyage so messily; so haphazardly. I have begun at the end and ended at the scene of the crime. How did I get here?

We do not enter the Cathedral; I do not even make mention of the thing I have just discovered. We part ways with our tour guide just outside Jaffa Gate, where a group of young soldiers are unstrapping their guns, which they cannot bring inside the City on their cultural day off. And we walk away from the Old City; away from the walls, to our lunch in Mamilla in a modern shopping plaza, where I eat salmon and soba noodles for the third time that week

The thing I do not realise at the time is the utility of brokenness. I am too arrogant; too dense to understand that we pray at the Wall because of the cracks in it; that we wish on the bells because they break down. I cannot fully fathom that I have just traced the broken pieces of a saint – finding his body in the land of my family and his head in the homeland of the man I love. I have perhaps been on the wrong pilgrimage all this time – I have travelled these different paths to try to make myself whole again, and I do not understand that first, I need to find the beauty in being broken.

I leave Madrid for Santiago de Compostela on a sunny Sunday morning. The evening before, at a Spanish friend’s house, I had admitted that my family was from Galicia, and Lady of the House’s son immediately piped up, But you do not seem crazy! You know that all Gallegos boast they are 10% crazy, right? He shook his head, confused at the idea that anyone could be proud of that. I did not tell him that if what he said were true it would explain Quite A Lot about one side of my family.

I don’t know what to expect in Galicia, other than 10% of the people being nuts. Nearly twenty years prior, my high school sweetheart had studied abroad in London, and capped off the adventure by travelling the Camino de Santiago before joining the Peace Corps in Mauritania after graduation. His trek down the Camino had been fruitful for him, creatively speaking, and it had resulted in a play – a musical – which he’d sent to a select group of readers via his mother. It was the first in a series of many musicals he wrote, and he’d ultimately grown up to be a Broadway composer.

The envelope containing That Particular Play had arrived at my college apartment in a manila envelope with the soundtrack on CD or a cassette tape – I don’t remember which it was and given the era, either was plausible. He’d also sent word that a single bird flying overhead seemed like a sign, and when he reached the church at the end of the trek, the floodgates opened, and he cried, because then he felt like he had found God.

I ripped the manuscript up without reading it; I listened to the tape once, because I loved the sound of his voice more than I hated him; and I burned the postcard where he described the bird, the sky, the church, and God. He had broken my heart – broken me – so profoundly that I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole again. After losing my first love in such a public and humiliating way, I didn’t think that my head and my heart would be part of the same complete person again.

At the time, I didn’t know he was travelling the roads that my family had lived on; that he was exploring the places I was From. Back then, I had no idea how we would both grow, and more importantly, how much work time actually does. I was just angry in the way that Hurting Young People often are.

Before I left for Spain, this past June, I had bumped into him in California. Someone snapped a photo of us, arms around each other, smirking into the camera like we might have done Way Back When, and it reminded me of being on the cusp of all the things we could not contain twenty years ago: Our love; our anger; our fear; our knowing that This Was A Finite Thing.

That’s heavy stuff for teenage hearts.

I am thinking of him again as I land in Santiago de Compostela, in their modern airport nestled amongst the greenery that makes the approach look like I am landing in Norway or Ireland. My heart aches with old fury; untapped grief; with feelings I cannot identify but that feel vaguely familiar.

Is this what it feels like to be a pilgrim? 

I am only in Santiago for two days, so I am only planning to walk the last ten miles or so of The Way of Saint James; of the Camino de Santiago. The pilgrimage derives its name from the patron saint of Spain – Saint James the Greater – whose body is entombed in the grand cathedral at the Camino’s end. The name Santiago itself comes from the Spanish derivation of James from Latin – Sanctu Iacobu – which, translated from Vulgar Latin to local Galician, became sant iago, hence Santiago.

The story goes that after James was martyred at the hands of King Herod in Jerusalem (Acts 12:1-2), his body was returned to Galicia, but was thrown into the sea – emerging covered in scallop shells. As a result, travellers come to Santiago and carry bleached shells on red cords, emblazoned with the shield of Saint James as evidence they are pilgrims who should be granted a safe passage. 

I pick up my red lanyard and hit the trail mid-morning on my first full day in town, the sun bright overhead. When I reach the first scallop-shaped trail marker, a bird flies across the perfect blue sky, and the floodgates open, and the tears come in a tidal wave that I did not know was contained behind my eyes. I snap a photo of the trail marker and I send it to my high school sweetheart, without any text, because I know that in this moment, almost twenty years after his own journey, he is the only person who will understand my heart.

Then I walk for ten miles, crying. I am crying because these are the roads my people have walked for generations and this is the first time, ever, I have been in a place that I know I am From. I am crying because I came all this way, and did all this work, and married all these men, and at the end of it, it is just me here, alone, with nothing to show all these dead ancestors for it. I’m also crying because I’m probably at least 10% crazy, just like the rest of them. 

How did I get here?

As I emerge from the Spanish woods and near the cathedral at the Camino’s end, my phone buzzes with a text message from my high school sweetheart. He has received my picture of the trail marker.

The start of everything, he says.

And I understand, suddenly, in this hot, stark moment in the north of Spain, that who I am is not just a disappointment; not only a litany of failures or a sum-total of endings. I am just at the start.

A Quarterly Update on What I’ve Been Reading:

16. Janesville – Amy Goldstein (nonfiction; how the GM bankruptcy impacted a small Wisconsin town)

17. Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Life and Love from Dear Sugar– Cheryl Strayed (nonfiction; I was a religious reader of the Dear Sugar column at The Rumpus for a long time; loved this)

18. Option B – Sheryl Sandberg & Adam Grant (nonfiction; I was at a lunch with Adam Grant and was given a free copy otherwise I wouldn’t have read this; glad I did)

19. Emotional Agility – Susan David (nonfiction; psychological look at getting “unstuck” – basically a longform version of a HBR article I enjoyed. Worth reading)

20. Moonglow – Michael Chabon (fiction; I loved this. Fictionalised memoir of “the author” and his Holocaust survivor grandparents – poignant, funny, and heartbreaking; this review in The Guardian sold me)

21. How to Be Here – Rob Bell (theology; Bell is an acquired taste for some Christians, and this book reads more Humanist than say, Velvet Elvis)

22. Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts – Regena Thomashauer (garbage; someone gave me this book as a gift when they heard I was getting divorced and I read it in an afternoon on a flight. It is horrifying, unless you are the type of person who refers to other women as “Sister Goddesses.”)

23. The Danish Way of Parenting – Jessica Joelle Alexander & Iben Dissing Sandahl (garbage; another gift; and honestly, I am pretty sure that the American author thinks that Americans are emotionally stunted idiots  and didn’t realise she had emotional problems of her own until she moved to Denmark and started seeing a therapist and this book resulted)

24. Nonsense – Jamie Holmes (nonfiction; a book about reducing cognitive dissonance and the ways we make sense of the world. Super interesting but not necessarily engaging)

25. Native Speaker – Chang-rae Lee (fiction; fascinating novel about hard grief, clashing cultures, and the secrets we keep. One of the best books I’ve read. If you read nothing else on this list – this is a good one)

26. Evicted  – Matthew Desmond (nonfiction; a sociological look at poverty in America through the lens of real estate. Fairly apolitical in nature. The author embeds himself in Milwaukee housing over a period of years and writes about it. I am fairly entrenched in some of my viewpoints on this, but Desmond was able to open my eyes to things I had never considered)

27. The Remains of the Day  – Kazuo Ishiguro (fiction; the story of a career in service. Brilliant rat-a-tat writing; crystal clear prose; in my view, Ishiguro’s best work)

28. My Promised Land – Ari Shavit (nonfiction; the story of the birth of the nation of Israel told through the lens of a left-leaning Haaretz journalist. Fascinating; repetitive; long. Worth reading if, say, you are going to Israel and know little about it)

29. The Heart – Maylis de Kerangal & Sam Taylor (fiction; a novel about the death of a young man and the story of the transplantation of his organs. Sounds grim, but some of the most beautiful, striking prose I have read – translated from the French by Sam Taylor)

Some more take aways: While I am still trying to read more writers of colour, I am mostly focused on challenging my own perceptions. I am reading things that come recommended by people from whom I wouldn’t necessarily take recs. I am reading things that sound terrible to me and finding I love them. I am trying things that work and don’t work (hence the reason you see stuff I label “garbage” in this list – I am willing to TRY something that I wouldn’t normally read, and I’m willing to SHARE it, even if I think it’s awful).

Also, I think it’s okay to think a book is “garbage.” You may disagree with me – and I think that is great, Sister Goddess. I think that’s just great.

I am and always have been a reader – and in 2016 I resolved to Read More. I wanted to continue that through 2017, so I will update you quarterly on my progress through my reading list. Between December and now, here’s where I am:

  1. Selfish, Shallow & Self-Absorbed – ed. Meghan Daum (a book of short essays about being child-free)
  2. The Underground Railroad – Colson Whitehead (a brilliant, magical-realist interpretation of the Underground Railroad)
  3. The Light Between the Oceans – M.L. Stedman (a lighthousekeeper and his wife, after repeated miscarriages, rescue a child orphaned at sea and deal with the fallout of that choice)
  4. Men Explain Things to Me – Rebecca Solnit (short, feminist essays)
  5. Bad Feminist – Roxanne Gay (longer, feminist essays and critiques in a style and on topics that are not immediately apparent as being “feminist”)
  6. Runaway – Alice Munro (typical Alice Munro short stories)
  7. The Broken & the Whole (a rabbi talks about family tragedy and healing from grief)
  8. Commonwealth – Ann Pachett (a brilliant, complex story of a brilliant, complex blended & unhappy family)
  9. The History of Love – Nicole Krauss (a magical, intergenerational love story)
  10. Hillbilly Elegy – J.D. Vance (a memoir about growing up in Appalachia – and moving on)
  11. Why I Am Not a Feminist – Jessa Crispin (a short book about the state of modern feminist theory)
  12. Shrill – Lindy West (essays on love, life, fat acceptance, internet trolling, and death)
  13. Homegoing – Yaa Gyasi (an intergenerational novel about Ghanaian families, slavery, and differences in the toll of time)
  14. Black Edge – Sheelah Kohlhatkar (a story about the rise and fall of SAC Capital)
  15. Hallelujah Anyway – Anne Lamott (a slim volume that seems to touch on the theology of mercy and happiness)

Some General Themes: I am reading more writers of colour; I am reading more about feminism; I am reading more essays. I am trying to challenge myself and my perceptions and get out of my Reading Comfort Zone.

Book Club: I had to quit my book club. Not because I didn’t like them – I did like them, a lot! – but the books they picked were universally So Horrendous that I couldn’t continue to read what they wanted to read. I liked their company. I hated their taste in books.

What’s Next: Poetry; some hefty non-fiction; and one or two really classic novels.

This is the eighth (and final) piece in a brief series of posts. Here are the firstsecond, and thirdfourthfifthsixth, and seventh.

By mid-June, I am feeling crazed by Not Knowing whether I have the type of EDS that will make my organs rupture without warning, and also by Not Being Able to run now, or potentially ever again.

There is nothing that makes a woman feel less attractive than spending a summer recovering from surgery. My skin and stomach are both taking a beating from the constant onslaught of anti-inflammatories. I have been nauseous for weeks; constantly dissolving Zofran tablets on my tongue. I sleep in long, monogrammed PJs even as the temperature rises because I am sick of looking at the scabby holes in my leg. I’m walking on my own, but my gait is like that of a baby giraffe and I cannot walk for too long without epic fatigue.

These are First World Problems, so I try to power through. I focus on how quickly I am healing; I talk about my progress with physical therapy. I take pictures of the scars and I post them on Instagram because when you are full of holes, you only want people to see the supernova of your body on your terms. I have two constellations of incisions – one on each hip – and a whole galaxy of scars on my right knee from repeated, failed arthroscopies during my days of competitive sports. There is also a several inches-long vapour trail running down the inside of my right leg from my running accident last summer.

I have to do something. I search for any activity that I can participate in that will Take The Edge Off and will not require more medication and that will not bore me. Under the influence of the last of my narcotics and Royal Ascot, I decide horseback riding is the way forward. I ask my physical therapist whether equitation is permissible, and he tells me that it is possible, but not advisable because Meredith, squeezing a piece of horsemeat between your legs could irritate your hip flexor.

I love making dirty jokes, but I do not take his bait because the last time I did that, I wound up announcing to the entire gym that I eat boxes for breakfast! I was talking about my prowess in conquering the eight inch riser they were having me step-up and step-down to prove my quad strength before they’d let me in the anti-gravity treadmill. But I got a few looks that morning.

I spend the next few days scouring the internet for barns that are not too stuffy, that are close to the city, and that accommodate adult beginners.

The last time I rode a horse was when I was leaving my first husband. Jade told me that when I was ready to leave Andrew, I should come home. When I knew it was time, I called my parents to come pick me up at a wedding in Las Vegas and take me back to LA. I had had several moments where I knew my first marriage was over, but that wedding where Andrew had dragged us to Vegas insisting he was the best man in a wedding in which he was not even in the wedding party provided a particular moment of clarity as to the direness of my circumstances.

Once I arrived in LA towards the end of that particular shitshow, Jade took me to her mother’s house. Jade’s mother, Das, is an accomplished equestrienne, and was one of the only divorcees I knew intimately at the time. Das took me out on the trail and we rode for hours and hours. It had inspired me to write a poem about Frederic, and horses, and divorces, which I had shared with him, and which he had praised in that way that made clear he thought it was stupid.

And that was that.

Within months Frederic was legally separated, and so was I and I thought things might go somewhere, sometime. But then he surprised me by telling me that he’d been seeing the Danish girl all that time, and what was I doing, still writing him letters? Didn’t I know that I’d caused a terrible flap between him and his girlfriend because they’d moved in together and one of my letters had been forwarded to their shared abode?

I shrunk back in a special kind of shame, then, when I realised I had left a man who couldn’t handle rejection to the point of refusing to admit he wasn’t the best man in his childhood friend’s wedding, only to find myself sending poems to a man I failed to notice was living with another woman.

I sign up for riding lessons at a farm in Pleasantville, NY near where Paul and I were married. My instructor wears concert t-shirts and has turquoise hair and tells me that I need to feel things; that I will suck at this a little to start; that feeling is first. I cry the first time I get on the horse – a giant gelding called, of all things, Bill – not out of fear, but because I am certain I haven’t felt much of anything in years.

I don’t suck at horseback riding, but I am not instantly good at it, which is exactly what I need. I need something to take my mind off of the EDS; and the whole of my lower extremities.

Hold the reigns up, like an ice cream cone! Tamara the instructor shouts from the centre of the ring, and I apologise for not doing it right. Why are you saying you’re sorry? she asks me, truly baffled, You’ve done this like three times in your life!

With that, I begin to realise how far off the rails I have gone. Literally. Figuratively.

At the end of my first lesson, I sign up for many more because even if I never master the sport, I am coming to terms with the fact that nothing will be the same again, and the future, whatever it is, will be entirely different and wholly Okay.

This is the seventh in a brief series of posts. Here are the firstsecond, and thirdfourthfifth and sixth.

We have made it to the end of May. I am still on crutches, but I am not yet losing my mind. I have Prepared for This – large joint reconstructions are apparently What I Do in the summertime now.

It is the morning of the last day in May, which is also my mother’s birthday, and it is a perfect, slightly cool New York City Early Summer Day. I take Roo out for his morning walk, hopping along beside him using one crutch, and hoping we finish his constitutional quickly. Everything takes so much longer when your mobility is reduced, and even walking and scooping after the dog seems to take hours longer each day than it did when I was fully in control.

As I carefully thread us between the fussy dogs and I navigate the uneven brick pavers on my block, Roo suddenly takes off for a man standing by his car. He is an older man; well-dressed; and is putting some sort of box into the trunk of a late-model black sedan.

I’m sorry, I apologise as I try to steady myself, He doesn’t normally take off like that.

I didn’t think he’d recognise me, the man tells me. I am not looking at the man’s face as he says this; I am looking down at my dog, who is sitting prettily beside this stranger like he has known him forever. But when the man mentions being recognised, my eyes are drawn upward. In New York City, it is not uncommon for a person unknown to a dog’s owner to recognise and be recognised by the dog – Roo is walked by a walker during the day and makes friends all the time. This is to say that, on its face, this exchange is no where near as weird as it might sound to a non-New Yorker.

But before I can ask how this man knows my dog, I realise what striking resemblance the man bears to my dead grandfather – my mother’s dad. I look at his face, and he looks like a very well-dressed, not-dead version of Bop. I am speechless for a moment, because the resemblance is so uncanny.

He bends down to pet Roo, then looks at me: Tell her I love her, he says as he stands up. He puts his hand on my shoulder, like he is resisting asking me for an embrace. I am dumbfounded, and not ordinarily a touchy-feely person, so I nod and I toddle away home with my dog.

I burst into tears in the lift, because I am either going crazy or have already taken too many pain-pills for the day. My mind is racing with questions. When we die, do we simply go on to live as our Best Selves in some other realm – successful, calm, and happy – waiting to bump into the occasional friend and relative along the way? Did I really have a conversation with my dead grandfather on a New York City street in broad daylight? Why would a stranger tell me to tell someone he loves her – unless it were my mother’s father on the day of her birthday?

Am I losing my mind? I am losing my mind.

My mother follows closely in the tradition of her people: Emotional Spaniards Who See Things. She often mentions her conversations with dead people, like this is something perfectly normal, and no one ever bats an eyelash at it. But my apple fell closer to the staid tree of my northern European father, whom I have only seen cry three times in my life: Once each upon the deaths of his parents, and then when I informed him in no uncertain terms that I would not be majoring in accounting.

I feed the dog then hobble off to work. I resolve to go back down and talk to this man; ask him how he knows my dog; let my rational mind take over and figure out The Reason For All This. But by the time I get back downstairs, the man has disappeared.

Am I dreaming?

I do not tell anyone about this encounter, because it sounds insane. In the past, I’ve always loved the subtle signs that I thought represented Bop waving from beyond – his name appearing in unexpected places; the time I thought I heard his laugh in the middle of the night. Those tiny events, which always happened at Just The Right Time, seemed ordinary and easy to explain – a consequence of my brain looking for comfort and reassurance after a protracted period of Complicated Grief.

How do I explain this; how can I make this make sense? I wonder in the taxi on the way to the office.

With my EDS diagnosis, the doctors believe that the genes for the disorder were passed from my grandfather, to my mother and Margaret, to me. And so I have been angry at my grandfather – the man who could do no wrong. I am mad at a dead guy, more than a decade after his death – mad that my grandmother had to feel like she was at fault for the death of her child when my grandfather’s shitty collagen gene was the likely culprit; inconsolable that I’ve spent the past few summers having my body put back together and it took so long for anyone to figure any of this out.

I am also suddenly super annoyed that despite spending decades talking and writing about how different and distant we are, I am turning into my mother.

This is the sixth in a brief series of posts. Here are the firstsecond, and thirdfourth, and fifth.

It is mid-May.

Jade is originally meant to stay for a week, but she stays for ten days instead.

I do not know how to communicate how glad I am to have her here. I am the sort of person who sends handwritten letters, or gives Grand Gifts to show gratitude, but who struggles with the basics of close emotional engagement. With that in mind, sometimes I re-watch Hannah and Her Sisters, and I want to believe I am the desirable Lee or the fragile Holly – but in truth, I am the easy-to-resent Hannah. Hannah, who never needs anything from anyone.

Jade works in the Arts, and some of her work can be done away from Los Angeles, so she works while I lay on the sofa in a drug-addled stupor with my leg in a machine that bends it for several hours each day. My contractor has not finished the bathroom renovation he promised to finish a week ago, so Jade puts on her headphones as the Tile Guy cuts marble in the background.

One thing is clear: We did not expect to be Here, wherever Here is.

Jade has come to New York wearing a hat with Half Dome embroidered on it, and I laugh, because I have the same one. It dates back to the early days of my divorce; my first week on the California coast. Jade had met me in Carmel, and although we were arguing about The Circumstances Surrounding The End of My Marriage, we drove to Yosemite to climb Half Dome.

For the first time in my life, I had no idea what I was doing.

In my head, it was the Perfect Time to climb a mountain, specifically, Half Dome. But because I do a lot of communicating in my head, I do not think I fully explained what this entailed to Jade.

We arrived in Yosemite at night and everything was on Fire. Jade’s house had once burned down, and she was terrified and furious at me that I had brought her to a literal firepit to force her up a mountain for no reason. And I had lost all powers of persuasion – I had just filed separation papers two weeks before – and had gotten a speeding ticket on our drive. At the time, I felt like it was an excellent idea to argue with the National Park Service officer over what federal preemption is and how it applied where a state law explicitly granted one the right to decline to provide one’s social security number for a speeding ticket.

(When you are getting divorced, it is shocking how angry you are – even if it is an amicable split. I denied how angry I was for a long, long time. I admitted to feelings of guilt, and sadness, and grief. But I look back on all the fights I picked with strangers; all the things I had to prove; and I cannot help but marvel at the magnitude of my rage.)

So Jade and I climbed – it took us all day but we summited Half Dome and looked out over the hazy valley. There were points where I had to scream back down the trail and encourage; bribe; cajole her up the mountain. But we did it.

Relationships are not easy. But that is part of how we got Here, I think: New York by way of California; divorced by way of Half Dome; married by way of a proposal in Yosemite Valley. Diagnosed with some rare disease by way of Scotland, and Amsterdam, and Big Sur, and an aunt who died in infancy.

So Jade works, and my leg bends, and the Tile Guy saws, and here we are.

Throughout the week, people come and go and Jade and I talk in between guests. Or sometimes, we don’t talk at all. Sometimes we just sit. On Saturday, when I am finally less disoriented and nauseated, Jade goes to spend a night Out East with an old friend of ours. JRA comes to visit; my friend Patricia comes in the morning to stay for a few hours. Others come and go. One friend jokes: Your house is always so clean and you are always so put together that it’s sort of fun to be like this. She confides this like we are little girls at a sleepover, and we are pulling a trick on My Ordinary Self.

I never need anything from anyone so I am grateful, even though I feel watched; supervised; incapacitated; and momentarily mortified about the state of My Apartment Under Construction. But the magnitude of my pain, nausea, and immobility is such that I do not have a choice. I have to ask for help.

By Sunday, nearly a week after the operation, I am feeling Marginally More Human. My friend Smplefy, who once met me in the Edinburgh Airport, is in town and he stops by with his daughter in tow – he is picking her up for the summer from a nearby college. He has asked me what he can bring to cheer me, and while I am inclined to say Just yourselves! I remember that JRA tells me to tell people specific, actionable things they can do for me, for both their benefit and for mine. So I tell him what I really want – a black-and-white cookie – which they proffer upon arrival. I know it is a labour of love because they are Californians, who have absolutely no idea what a black-and-white cookie is, and they have brought a fresh one from the Carnegie Deli.

While we are chatting, Jade comes back from Long Island. I watch her as she talks to our guests, and I cannot help but be completely overwhelmed by the generosity of these people who have come to be with me.

I am thinking about Scotland, Smplefy says suddenly, And your grandmother’s bracelet.

I am momentarily shocked, because that has been on my mind since the beginning of this adventure; since my diagnosis. Additionally my grandmother’s birthday and the anniversary of her death are upon us. But that bracelet, and those clues – they had been my information; my burden. It feels so strange for some one else to be in the thick of that with me. I am not even sure my mother had remembered the jewellery, or could piece together how it led to this place. Then I remember that M has a frightfully good memory, and he is struck by small details and things of beauty all the time.

It’s funny you should ask about that, I say…

So here we are.