My supervisors.

EMDR and therapy have been rough lately. It’s okay. That’s how it works. However, I hadn’t anticipated the current deluge of events, which have rained down more drops than I feel I can handle all at once.

My brother-in-law, David, and his daughter came to visit from March 26 to April 9. He arrived on the 27th because he missed his connection to Scottsbluff. Customs and Border Patrol took too long getting him processed. That’s the state of the shithole country I live in. Vital jobs were cut and those who remained were not getting paid due to another government shutdown. There was slight chaos and panic, but I thought everything was going to be okay.

David and Paul North at Custer State Park, April 1, 2026.

It started April 1. It was the same pains I had twice in 2025. I burp. It tastes rancid vomit. I ate. Almost immediately, my entire torso seized up. I was going to take David to see the pioneer graves. We came home instead. I took a nap. A few hours later, the pain stopped.

Thursday, April 2, was the first anniversary of my mother’s death. I stayed at home while Paul took his relatives out and about. I felt terrible, but the worst had not yet arrived. This was the perfect time for me to call my mom and ask for advice. I can’t do that anymore. So I managed as best as I could and hoped a bowel movement would ease things. It did not. It was only a temporary reprieve.

On Friday, the nausea began in therapy. I did a procedure known as Calm, Safe, Place. It eased my pain. I honestly thought the nausea was due to the trauma I was talking about in session. By the time I got to my friend Mikhail’s house at 7 p.m., everything was a struggle. I had taken my nausea medication. I was eating my ginger chews.

Mikhail had to record his presentation for his college Speech class in front of people. I wanted to stay after, but felt like hot garbage. I came home and went to bed around 8:30 p.m. I spent the rest of the night periodically waking up in pain. I didn’t know “which end” everything was going to come out of, but I am familiar enough with the process that I knew something was coming soon.

It started at 5 a.m., Saturday. For five hours, both ends of my body rebelled against me. I couldn’t hold my stomach like humans instinctively do when they hurt because touching any part of me caused excruciating pain. Paul texted me from work to ask if I was going to the emergency room. I could barely get off the bathroom floor. There was no way I could drive my 5-speed to the hospital.

Paul left work to get me. We arrived at the hospital just after 10 a.m. A nurse helped me into the ER after watching me tumble out of the car. A nurse hooked me up to some fluids to re-hydrate me and took some blood. They gave me my nausea medicine, but in liquid form. There were a lot of tests. I counted 26, including several for E. coli. All tests were negative.

The doctor didn’t recommend anything other than “we didn’t find anything” and “come back if your symptoms get worse.”

The BRAT diet – bananas, rice, applesauce, toast – is the standard recommendation when you’ve puked your guts out and there’s nothing left in your stomach. I had puked up a banana after the first bite before going to the ER. I’m not sure it ever reached my stomach. Rice raises my blood sugars. I opted for the AT diet. This was, essentially, all I ate until Thursday, April 9.

I added in a chicken gyro, which stayed down, but caused a bit of stomach discomfort. I finally felt okay on Saturday, April 11.

The laundry needed to be done. I loaded it as usual and cleaned off my desk to write in my journal, which I left in my office. I went downstairs and opened the door. The sound was familiar. You hear it when it’s pouring rain outside and the water bangs on the hard cement after tumbling over the edge of an overhang. Except this was my floor and it had carpet.

“Shit,” I said. Panic. Freeze. My brain kicked into gear and yelled, “get a fucking bucket,” at me.

I scrambled to the nearest garbage can. It was the tiny one in the bathroom nearby. It would do until I could grab the two larger cans, yank the bags out, and take them back to the room. It was already too late to keep the carpet dry, but I could prevent more damage.

Task accomplished, I ran back upstairs, grabbed two rolls of paper towels from the kitchen shelf and went back to the washer and dryer. I pulled all of our rags off the shelf above the washer and dryer. With all my might, I pulled the dryer out of place and began tossing down the rags. Words were said.

The aftermath.

I took a deep breath. The hose had wiggled its way out of the drain hole. I shoved it back in as far as I could. Then, I got the step ladder, put it in front of the washer and got to work.

Two steps up, put my butt on the washer and swing my legs over and behind the dryer. Drop down. Standing in a soaking pile of wet rags, I unplugged the dryer. I sopped up all the water and tossed the rags and paper towels back into the hallway.

Our cat, Puck, is 17-years old and has three legs. He can’t get into the litter box anymore. We have wee mats in the hall where he pees. Yes, he peed while I was trying to work and, yes, I stepped in it later on.

The rags and paper towels sat on one of the wee mats overnight. It took me a few hours to get all the water cleaned up. Down in my office, water had stopped dripping from the ceiling, but there was a bulge in the wall.

I made several trips to the basement to check on things. It must have been the fifth time when I noticed my Valtteri Bottas hat was wet. I haven’t worn it yet. Now, it has a water stain. I am sad, but cannot dwell on it because more paper towels need to be placed on the floor to soak up the water.

My stomach hurts. I am not fully recovered from last week. It’s time to sleep and try again tomorrow.

On Sunday, April 12, I spent several hours cleaning up the aftermath. In order to get under the washing machine, which is heavier than the dryer, I had to unplug the dryer again, pull it into the hallway and then shimmy the washer, one quarter of an inch at a time, over to the dryer’s place. Then, I got on my hands and knees and cleaned the floor. I did everything in reverse and put both machines back into place.

I learned two things: 1) I am still strong enough to pull myself up by my arms to get out of tight spaces even though I’m not feeling well and 2) the hose for the dryer vent is not the right size. It just rests on top of the hole, allowing a lot of air to escape or water to flow into my fucking HVAC system.

All tasks aren’t completed yet. There is a fan in my office blowing on the wet floor. The wall and ceiling, as well as the dryer vent hole, need to be fixed. I just can’t do it right now. I am mentally and physically spent.

When I went downstairs Sunday night, I heard a large screeching noise. My battery backup was dying. “Fucking great,” I thought to myself. All three computers were disconnected. I got dressed and went out to buy a new one. I used grocery money to do so.

I woke up this morning to the news that someone important to me has Stage IV colorectal cancer. Not even 40. Three children under eight years old.

I’m going to be laying on my couch for a while. Or is it lying? Where’s a good copy editor to ask because I can never remember?

In the middle of writing this post, I threw up. I cried. I keep thinking, “What else? What fucking else?”

A friend recently asked how I’ve survived all the terrible things that happened to me. I’ve certainly had my fair share of shit rained down on me, figuratively and literally, but that’s a story for another time.

I still can’t answer that question. I just cry, pick myself up, and try again the next day. What else is there to do?