The Mouse That Remembered Me. Part VII (2024): El Fin

MICKEY 7

el fin

Why I oughta, April 2024

There’s a photo from the ER.
IV in my arm. Mickey peeking out from the tattoo on my bicep like nothing’s wrong.

My hemoglobin was five.

Hard stop.

We’d been calling it fatigue.
I’d been calling it stress.
Maybe testosterone. Maybe weather. Low iron, probably.
I’d pushed through worse.

But this wasn’t tired. This was something else.
This was collapse.

Rewind. January.

I was at home, buying plants. Making a Mickey Valentine’s flash sheet.
No one bit. Not one response.

I looked like hell.
Pale, sagging, hollow in the cheeks.
But I kept drawing.
Kept pretending this was just aging or stress or—whatever else made it easier to ignore.

Then came Vegas.

My girlfriend and I flew out to see one of her friends.
The zings started a few days before the trip—those little lightning blinks behind the eyes.
Didn’t want to cancel. So I didn’t.

On the plane, I handed her my wallet and keys.
Forgot to pick them back up after we landed. Didn’t realize until we were already outside for an Uber.
She ran back in to get them.
I stood there, blinking in the heat.

I tried to rally.
Tried to smile for photos.
Drank a silly drink by the pool.
We went to Area 15—Omega Mart—but I barely remember it.
There’s a picture of me under fluorescent lines. I look like a ghost.

When we told her friend I wasn’t feeling great, probably low iron, she said:

“Gotta eat them leafy greens.”

Didn’t have the energy to roll my eyes.

Back in Seattle, I slept.
Waited for my blood draw on Monday.
On the drive home from my girlfriend’s, I threw up on the freeway.
Delirious.

The doctor called hours after the results.
Said get to the ER. Now.

My girlfriend met me there.

First thing out of her mouth:

“Should I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?”

Then, when I started to break down, overwhelmed by the hospital and the machines, she said I was acting like one of her psych patients.
Called me a toddler.

And that’s when that loop closed.

She wasn’t going to understand what this kind of healing meant.
Not then. Not ever.

That’s where this one starts.
Not with pancakes.
Not with a crown.
Just blood. Collapse. And a mouse watching silently from the bend of my arm like he already knew.

ACT II — Second Puberty

I was walking my dog when it happened.
My chest shifted.
Colors changed.
Something powered back on.

When the blood hits just right.

It wasn’t spiritual. It was somatic. Electrical.
I stood there blinking at a tree, unsure why it looked different.

I called my buddy Art.

“I think I’m getting superpowers.”

My fingernails started growing again.
Not just longer. Stronger.
That ridge from before—the line marking my old depleted body—started lifting the nail from the bed.
It’s still there, 17 months later.
That’s how long it takes to grow a new self.

Night sweats. Puffy face. Swollen eyes.
Everything ached and pulsed in weird new places.
I looked better. Then worse. Then better again.
Puff. Then sag.
Puff. Then sag.
Healing came in waves, not lines.

Then one morning, I dropped a cereal box from the top shelf—
and caught it without looking.

I froze.
Like I'd just been handed a message from the universe.
No one else noticed. Maybe Tiff. But I knew what it meant.

For years, I dropped everything.
Eventually I stopped even trying to catch them.
The reflex was gone. The synapse didn’t fire.
I let things fall.

This time, I caught it.
And I’m still convinced I’m Spider-Man now.

People like calling it “second puberty.”
It sounds cute that way.
Digestible. Quirky.

But this wasn’t cute.

My body had shrunk.
My toes curled in on themselves so tightly my nails warped.
They’re flat now—because my toes gained girth.
That’s how far gone I was.
I wasn’t tired. I was decomposing.

When the pottery lady asked for help moving a bookcase, I said yes.
Lifted one end and immediately thought my bicep might rupture again.
This was after the ER. After I’d started “getting better.”

I looked strong.
I wasn’t.

People saw what they wanted to see:
Cute dog.
Tattoo awards.
A little charm.
Nice car.
Sexy girlfriend.
Confident guy.

But I wasn’t thriving. I was holding my world together with caffeine, denial, and muscle memory.

Summer was weird.
Small victories felt massive.
Thinking two thoughts at once felt like splitting atoms.
I nearly cried the first time I remembered something and planned something else at the same time.

I did cry when I began to realize how long I had been sick for.

I hosted a pottery show. Two people bought mugs.
Went to the gym. Moved to think.
Then I planned a road trip—Coeur d’Alene. Montana. Utah.

AMART’s Fall Road Trip.

No purpose. Just motion.
To see if the color stayed.

Spoiler:
It did.

ACT III — The One Where Mickey Was the Only One Who Showed Up

I got dressed.
Took a photo of my fingernail on the way in.
Opened the shop.
Turned on the lights.

And waited.

Four hours. Maybe five.

No one showed up.

I didn’t blast it.
Didn’t beg for bookings.
But the post was there.
Mickey Day.

The call was made.
And nobody answered.

But I didn’t fall apart.

Because by then, I knew the truth:
Mickey had kept the beat while I survived.
And now I had rhythm again.

I’d just returned from the trip.
Oh Boy was taking shape.
I said goodbye to Colby softly.

I thought that was the end—
until Frank started posting Nazi shit and reminded me that some endings are just costume changes.

My tooth pain had already started before I left Colby.
Off and on. Then worse.

By December, I couldn’t speak.
Didn’t have the money to go under.
I was opening a studio. Doing all the manual labor because my partner was pregnant.
Painting. Building. Designing. Marketing. 25 trips to Lowe’s.
Neon sign. Flash sheets. Product photos. Caption stacks.

All of it.
By hand.

The day after Christmas, I had my wisdom tooth pulled.
Awake. Gritted. Done.

New Year’s Eve—I poured a drink and toasted the ball drop on TV.

Wrote:

“This year, everything is going to change.
Happy New Year.
@ohboyoriginal”

And holy shit.
Oh boy did everything change.

But Mickey didn’t need to watch it happen.

[el fin]