Meanwhile...

An interview with Tereza Coraggio, the return of the clowns, and the sycophantic licking of Fauci's arsehole

I’ve been pretty quiet these past few months. It’s not due to lack of ideas, quite the contrary. I’ve been building, creating, spending quality time with my kids, opening doors, making plans, shooting films… and at the same time, I’ve been navigating some medical uncertainties that have sponged up more of my attention than I am willing to give such matters.

I’ve hesitated to write about it because I don’t want it to be interpreted as the headline of my adventure; it sure as heck isn’t. The headline is that life has been absolutely full. It’s precisely why these interruptions have been so frustrating.

I had been meaning to share this fun interview with Tereza Coraggio, but I wanted to address my absence, and now it’s been over a week, so I hope you caught it on Third Paradigm! Although I know next to little about money, Tereza let me ask questions without making me feel dumb. And she is really interesting to talk to! So interesting in fact, that I’ve invited her in the flesh to Chicago to be a special guest at our post-show discussion programming of The Missing Piece. More on that later! For now, if you haven’t already, please give the interview a gander:

Caret Convo with Tonika

I am currently sitting at the airport on my way to Mexico for my annual cancer prevention healing trip. I will not be able to complete this article before I arrive, but I expect to publish it while in Tijuana. I’m also hoping this trip answers some questions, since I am in limbo: radiology gave me a BI-RADS 5 (highly suggestive of malignancy) and yet wrote in the report that the findings are too inconclusive. I made radiology very upset by refusing the mammogram, and they (once again) sent in three separate physicians to talk me into it using the best of their training. While they smiled at everyone in the waiting room and treated them with saccharine compassion, I got the cold shoulder every time I got called in. They are refusing to continue with any other type of diagnostics until I submit to said mammo, even though mammography cannot be performed on your armpit.

But I don’t wish to bore you with any more details than I already have. Suffice to say, I feel very healthy and vibrant and I am. So. Over. It. I’m over the scans, and the pokes, and the doctor appointments. The reality is that most people get stuck in this odd limbo where the cancer is gone (or hopefully gone 😅) but the fear and medical machine just keeps churning. There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from feeling like if you stop paying attention even for a second, something bad will happen. It’s en garde fatigue. And, my friends, I do not make a good professional cancer patient. Lord have mercy on my medical team because I’m sure they are equally tired of me.

I am going to interject an anecdote here because I can’t help myself and I’m running on fumes while waiting for my plane to board. I woke up at 3:30 this morning to catch a 6:10 flight. I requested an opt-out, as I always do (if you think the mammogram people don’t appreciate my anti-radiation policy, let’s not even talk about TSA), and I waited for about 20 minutes for someone to come pat me down. My ma watched the lady who finally came over to do her job after I inquired about it more than 5 times just stand there and twiddle her thumbs. I know not everyone is out to get me, but I really can’t shake the feeling that TSA is vindictive against those who do not want to submit to the body scans.

I printed our boarding passes just this morning, and so we headed to our gate: A17. It is located on the far end of Midway Airport, but we arrived at 5:40 just to be told that there was a gate change: B24. I don’t know if you’ve been to Midway, but that’s on the other side of the airport. My ma and I started hauling ass. About halfway through, I turned and saw my poor 70-year-old mother having difficulty, and nothing would make this day worse than a heart attack, so I told her to take her time while I ran ahead to make sure they kept the door open.

Panting, I got to the gate at 6:02. It was open. Yay! My happiness was short-lived as I was told we were already removed from the flying list and that we would have to get on a different flight. I calmly explained that we couldn’t do that, we had arrangements for border pick-up, and a paid clinic day, and that the gate was still open, and that IT WAS THEIR FAULT for giving us the wrong gate. The manager, Jason, ran and hid on the same plane they weren’t allowing me on while I was intercepted by Beth and her best Southwest Airlines training (corporate training is so laughably obvious!) who told me she would help me (by taking up my attention) and told me that I should have printed my ticket the night before. Was the gate information going to be more current than this morning, Beth? Why are you wasting my time, Beth? Did you already resell our tickets to someone else, Beth?!?

They booked us on their earliest flight, which wasn’t a direct flight to San Francisco but conveniently (sarcasm) rerouted through Salt Lake City, and it is where I am currently sitting with a two hour layover until we can board our San Diego flight. But before I got to Utah (to wait at what appears to be the cleanest airport in the world), we sat in Midway at Gate A9 to board our 9:40a when my ma noticed the screen. She leans and asks, “Is Milwaukee in Utah?” Huh? Of course not. I look up, and with no Salt Lake City to be found, I ask the woman at the desk what gives. She then informs me there was a gate change and that I should go to Gate A19 — I am placing this picture of her clear red correction here for comic effect…

…because when we arrived at A19, Portland was on the screen. You see, there was another unannounced gate change, and the correct gate was actually A11.

But we made it. And now off to San Diego we go, where we will cross the border on foot to save the $150 border crossing ride fee. Anecdote over. See you on the other side.

Why this woman was moving a giant bag of dog food over the border remains a mystery…

Ah, sweet, sweet Tijuana! I love it here. The last couple of days have been occupied with Plato’s Cave of shadows and Fauci’s congressional hearing. I enjoy watching the theatrics for pure entertainment purposes. I tried commenting on social media that they’re all a part of the play: Rand, Johnson, Fauci, Biden, Trump… but realized that’s the equivalent of someone waving their arms and interrupting the show. And, hey, listen, I get it. Interruptions are what have gotten me down too.

This is day three of clinic. I missed the entire first day as reported above. But I’m enjoying quality time with my ma and I’m finally having the bandwidth to finish an article, so things are good! My Mexican Doctor concurs with me that a mammogram is completely useless, thinks a PET scan is the way to go, but that costs $2500 here, and if I can convince my Americonco (thanks, Mary, it’s now a neologism and you can’t stop me!) to get me one in the States, it’s the way to go. Mexiconco thinks imaging is entirely inconclusive.

But see, cancer keeps demanding that I put my life on hold so I can chase shadows on a scan. Doesn’t cancer know I am having a thrill putting on a clown show with my bestie? And that Mary Poindexter McLaughlin is coming to Chi from Florida to direct it!? That my performing arts and special events space is my family business dream come true? That I’m connecting with my kids more tenderly and deeply? That I am following my joy unapologetically and with abandon?!?

The medical system is designed to focus relentlessly on finding and treating disease. It’s not designed to protect your joy. I have to deliberately guard that. I’m not waiting for life to begin. It’s begun! And every scan, every appointment, every discussion barges in demanding center stage. Uhm, excuse me! Who made cancer the main character of this story? Show yourself, coward!

From the outside, this all might look like I’m grieving the possibility of dying. But that’s not it. I’m grieving the constant interruption. I just want to go to a restaurant with my family and order whatever the heck I want. Not because of the food, but because I want to have a normal moment without a part of my brain running constant background surveillance: Is this organic? How much yogurt did I have yesterday; can I have that again today? It’s tiring to evaluate every choice I make through the lens of “is this helping me survive?” I just want a normal dinner. Not a victory meal over a scan, not a cheat, not a calculated decision. Just a stupid normal dinner. I want to sit there with my family without cancer demanding a seat at the table.

So, no Americonco, I don’t want your squish boob machine. And no, Beth, you can’t help me book another flight. I am not the same person I was when I got diagnosed. I changed my life. I got stronger. I lost huge amounts of weight. I built things. I created. I got energy back. I kept being a mom. I kept making art. I kept moving.

People make this strange bargain: “I’ll be happy once everything is ok.” But my story isn’t about waiting. It’s about my weird, wonderful adventures. I’m not chasing a reckless life; I’m living a full one. And that’s my deeper loss. That something lurks in the shadows waiting to suck my joy out. But what if I just don’t do any of that? Dear Margaret Anna Alice sent me information about the Nagalese test. It’s out of pocket. But maybe I’ll just do that once a year and call it a day. And then permit myself to just live my life.

Thanks for still being here even though I’ve been MIA. Now you know why. I started working on a creative project since the Fauci thing is so amusing. Let’s see if I can get it done before I get back stateside and continue touching grass. I’ve missed Substakistan. Getting back into it is quite fun. Another reminder to check out Tereza’s video where you can see me in the flesh (and you can confirm whether I look sickly to you!) and sheesh, Tereza is easy on the eyes, isn’t she?

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