Pooka & the Vast Lonely

Or protecting my creativity

On the eve of my brain surgery, I met with the neurosurgeon. He was cool, intelligent, funny, and compassionate. All the things one hopes for in someone about to open your skull.

I can’t remember how long the conversation was. Longer or shorter than it felt, I’m sure. What stuck with me was that he kept emphasizing how I wouldn’t even look like I’d had surgery. No head shaving. No visible scar. He’d cut along my hairline so precisely that no one would know unless I told them.

I thanked him. I appreciated the effort, and I’m certainly not above vanity. But I told him the truth:

“Oh, I’ll tell everyone about this. Honestly, right now, I don’t care too much about my hair. Or a scar. Or even a shaved head. What I care about is my creativity.”

I said,

“I won’t question a thing you do. This is your wheelhouse. I don’t even tell my hairstylist how to cut my hair. But I need to say this. If I can’t write or tell stories after this, I’m afraid I’ll lose a huge piece of my soul. I won’t remember how to function.”

He smiled and reassured me that the tumor, the incision, the surgery, none of it was near my creative brain.

I believed him instantly. I trusted him completely. It was one of the most grounded moments of human connection I’ve ever experienced.

Which makes sense. He was about to hold my brain in his hands. Anything less than authentic, complete trust only invites the worst.

No spoilers here. The surgery was a complete success.

The radiation, the treatment, the side effects — so far, none of it has taken away my ability to write or share.
At least, not unless I’m too tired to stay awake.

Surviving has added a strange, almost welcome kind of pressure.
The kind that whispers, keep going until the wheels fall off.

While I was in the hospital, and in those early weeks of recovery, I kept saying this thing to myself:

“You’re on the moon.”

And then, when that didn’t quite capture it:

“Actually, it’s worse than that, Amanda. You’re living in outer space.”

The care was incredible. The love was real.
People I hadn’t heard from in months and years reached out. My closest circle wrapped me in every kind of support.

And yet, I felt alone.
Grateful, but distant.
Loved, but floating.

Maybe that’s grief. Or trauma. Or just fear with a long echo.

I sang an old song in those still, disorienting hours in surgical recovery.
One I made up in this same hospital, years ago, when my son Briggs was a preemie in the NICU.

It went like this:

Who is a Pooka-backa-bee-choo?
Briggs is a Pooka-backa-bee-choo.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

Turns out, it was enough.
It got me through both ICU stays. Once as the parent, and once as the patient.
(Spoiler alert. Being the parent is harder.)

Six months out, I’m not as scared all the time.
I’m still making impossible choices.
But I’m also still creating.

I’ve drafted three Pooka adventures as children’s picture books.

Pooka is a small, sweet moon-dweller.
She doesn’t know how she got there.
She’s not sure if she’s ever been anywhere else.
She’s not even sure she’s allowed to imagine going somewhere new.

But across three emotional, delicate, honest journeys, she begins to trust herself.
She starts to wonder.
Then to believe.
Then, to move.

The series is soft and magical, and it's still just on my computer.

But it’s real.
And so am I.

I illustrated this cover with AI to help convey the tone and idea I have in mind. If you’d like to see more pages, let me know.