…sometimes, I need a time-out, too.

Vegan, gluten-free, with fruit? Yes, please. Except for how much sugar went into these bad boys, I could almost completely convince myself that they were healthy.

Which is probably why we ate them for breakfast. And why I finished off the batch, only two days after they were baked.

Based on a recipe from this book (affiliate link), I tweaked it a little to make the batter less dry (to compensate for the gluten-free flour), added a little extra of this and that, and still ended up with way too much. I suggest halving the recipe’s ingredients, and enjoying with sweet tea.

2 bananas, mashed
3/4 c. apple sauce
3/4 c. sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
2 1/2 c. flour (I used Bob’s Red Mill Gluten-Free All Purpose)
2 1/2 c. rolled oat flakes (I used Bob’s Red Mill Gluten-Free Rolled Oats)
1/4 t. xanthan gum
1 t. cinnamon
1 t. baking soda
1 c. raisins
1/2 c. vegan chocolate chips (try finding fair-trade certified, for extra tasty karma)

1. Preheat oven to 350°.
2. Mix together the bananas, applesauce, sugar, and vanilla in a small bowl. Set aside.
3. In a large bowl, mix together all dry ingredients except for the raisins and chocolate chips.
4. Add the banana mixture to the flour mixture, mixing together well, then add in the raisins and chocolate chips and mix again until just blended well.
5. After lining or lightly oiling it, drop spoon-fulls on a cookie sheet.
6. Bake for 12-15.

Makes at least a dozen huge-ass cookies.

I didn’t want to be here, facing it.

The spot on the xray is glaring, bright white, angrily testifying the treatment to follow. I’m sad for what’s been sapped, for this ache that will only get worse through excise. Can I get a morphine drip, please? This feels like iodine, swabbing down sternum, rattling my cage.

I’m scrubbing in, but my hand doesn’t feel any cleaner, and I can’t stop myself – I keep looking at the phone on the wall, waiting for the call saying scans were mixed up

(I don’t mean that, I wouldn’t wish this purgatory on anyone)

that malignancy was someone else’s

(couldn’t we just use radiation? I’ll puke for weeks on chemo, if that’s what it takes. Maybe my hair will fall out and grow back in, straight and soft and lively, and we’ll be in remission)

that it was just a persistent cough

(it hurts to breathe)

.

It’s not angiosarcoma, but it feels like a stage-three diagnosis.

I’m going under, counting myself backwards from 10

which might be going forward, if you really think about it – who’s to say?

but all this mask is giving me are ketamine dreams of what if and never more.

* I don’t have cancer, yo. I’m being artsy or morbid or metaphorical or poetic or something.