85. Charity Pain

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

Where do I begin? I was hiding from you. Ashamed. See, the stress of the surgery coming got my nerves pretty shaky. And then yesterday, while I was sitting in the cab with Piggy, I got the news.

I was so exhausted. I was on the verge of tears, really. There was the stress of getting everything done, the stress of dealing with so many people and accepting help from so many people — you know how hard that is for me. And the lack of sleep.

I went to a thrift store in our community. The school social worker and the vice principal said they know the person in charge and that I could come pick up some clothes for the kids for free. God, how I hate that fucking word. Free. Charity. But I went.

I expected them to give me about an outfit per kid, and I brought some money to pay for the rest. I walked around, choosing what the kids would like, and my heart was in my throat the whole time. It was very difficult to hold back the tears. I got a small mountain of clothes that came to $200. Which, in a store that charges $3–$7 per item, should tell you how much I took.

I tried to pay some of it, but she wouldn’t have it. She probably thought that I was playing that damn pleasantry game when I tried to insist, but I was biting my tongue so hard to hold the tears back that I tasted blood. The social worker then got me home, I dropped the clothes, tried to eat, though I was not very successful, and went to the school to pick up Piggy.

I took her to an allergy specialist, a doctor that we see every 6 months or so for Piggy’s skin asthma and breathing blockage when she is congested. Piggy was not in a cooperative mood, and by the time we left that clinic, I was ready to bury myself under the pavement. Tired. So damn tired.

And so, as we were sitting in the taxi back to the school, Piggy fell asleep, and I received a phone call. “Hi Oxy,” she says, “I am so sorry to do this to you, but we cannot have your surgery in a week, on the 19th. We have an emergency mastectomy for a cancer patient.”

I felt… shattered. All these preparations, all this madness, and it’s not happening. I could not even be gracious on the phone; I was just quiet. She told me her next available time. I made a “mmm” sound to show her I was still there — but now 110% of me was aimed at keeping my face straight so that the tears won’t flood me.

I think I did that too well, lol. Because I cannot feel anything since. I feel deflated. I don’t want to be here, alive. But I don’t really feel anything.

Yes, dear, I am well aware that I am behaving like a baby. Why do you think I was hiding from you? From me? From anyone who can see through the facade of me acting as if this did not just deflate the shit out of me?

Someone is in a bigger need, and thank God it’s not me. The extra time can only do us good. And at the end of the day, nothing bad really happened, did it?

But my brain shattered, and I am struggling to pick it back up. I don’t even dare tell you the amounts of money I spent — on what? Sewing machine? Travel bags and bathing suits for kids? Why? What is this all for?

This isn’t happening, isn’t it?

“During summer,” she said, “we often get pushed back.” In other words, this can happen again. And then I’ll be pushed to winter. How will I deal with snowplowing? How will we survive economically?

This isn’t happening. None of this. The surgery. My health. My business. London. You.

These are all hallucinations of a woman who cannot accept that she should have pulled the curtain on her own life so many years ago.

Pointless. All of this. Isn’t it?

Can’t feel anything. 
Just that this is all pointless. 
Yours, 
The hollow Oxy. 
June 13, 2026

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