I wrote last week’s muse; all it needed was one final edit, and I could push publish. Only Hurricane Ida hit, and havoc ensued. And like the flood that had parts of our neighboring town sinking in river water, my muse got washed up.

Call it what you will. Natural disaster. Freak accident. Act of God. All of the above. Circumstances got the best of me.

The night after the flood, we went to an overlook to see the town from above. The water had receded, but the river raged. If I knew anything about this sort of thing, I’d say it was a category two in white water rafting lingo, but all the fire alarms were going off in the five buildings along the riverbank.

A glance at my iPhone told me that there was another flood warning effect until the morning. Though I’m not sure if there was a second flood–the first one was disastrous enough, so does it matter?

But our lives are no different than that flood (or floods as the case may be). We can feel like disasters struck and still get carried away with the rise and fall of the incoming and outgoing tides.

My flood started when I learned that my metaphysical teacher’s on hospice. Couldn’t she be spared, at least until I feel like I’m not drowning anymore?

Do I need to remind you of what I’ve been through and all the saga that keeps happening? And now I add sorrow to the list. And, while I’m at it, might I mention how tired I am?

But my dear teacher was the one who told me (in no uncertain terms) I had to write. My sarcastic self knew that, but only she knew what I wasn’t admitting to myself; I wasn’t writing.

So I finally took her seriously (or maybe it was myself?), and I started this blog. There! I’m a writer now! See? And I have been ever since, so I showed her (or did she show me?). Except for last week.

It’s a flood remember?

And we’re looking at the cold, murky waters here. The brutal truth. If you can’t handle it, consider yourself warned.

Last Sunday I had to go to a wedding. They’re a thing again. And it’s hard enough to go to a wedding and be happy for the bride and groom when you’re drowning. But I showered and accidentally looked in the mirror for the first time in three weeks, post-surgery.

This revelation will be more horrifying for me than it will be for you, so I’ll speak metaphorically here, gasp, to my horror, it looked like one of the headlights on my car had gotten in a bad accident and had been pushed off to the side.

My plastic doctor made a grave mistake. Seriously was she drunk when she operated on me? Boy, was she going to get a piece of my mind when I saw her the next day! (Turns out it’s just chording underneath my pecks. It happens. I’ll be fine). But I wasn’t okay, not at that moment. I went from sad to freaking out!

We’ve all had that moment when you’re supposed to be happy, and you’re miserable. I was spiraling, falling, getting sucked further and further into the floodwaters.

So I covered up the wreckage and somehow got to the wedding and made it to the reception–with a new set of problems. How was I supposed to dance, exactly? I can’t twist, bend, or do anything but light walking, doctor’s orders, so Alex turned to me and said, “You’ll just have to fake dance.”

I got off the dance floor and looked like I had been break dancing the way my hair was standing up on top of my head. My dear friends were so worried I’d get Covid they stuck me in front of a fan that mimicked the high winds of the hurricane. Can the fun ever end?

Submerged in self-pity, I came home and was too tired, sad, grumpy to write my muse that no one reads anyway. Yes, I had sunk that low!

I would have stayed in those murky waters forever until I got an email from Nuria, my true muse for the week, who said she missed my blog.

Thank you, dear Nuria! You pulled me out of the dank water. (It wasn’t a good place to be, let me tell you) and she reminded me: when I write, it helps me; it helps you.

I can write and right away all the natural disasters of the world, and feel good again.

Come to think of it, she’s been my muse for my entire cancer journey. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve posted, and she’s texted me something similar that she’s read elsewhere (just not as funny as mine, so there’s no fear of plagiarizing).

Shouldn’t that have meant something to me?

And when I went to that wedding, the priest said in his homily the same message I had just been writing about (not that you would have known, I never published my muse). And since you don’t know any better, I can still claim that mine was funnier.

And my friend and the priest that married Alex and me talking on that bridge when they had way more important things to discuss than my wedding? That was plain weird.

Nuria, you pulled me out of the water and saved a washed-up wreck like me. You resuscitated me with your love, hugs, and laughter by simply being there to remind me you missed my muse.

So here I am a week later with my unpublished, missing muse. Soaked, moldy and water-stained, but here nonetheless. I’ll save it for you until next week, when I’ll dedicate it with love and thanksgiving for the Nuria in all of our lives.