Ashley Wool

Hey y'all. It's been a minute. Here are the main developments in the life and times of your fourth-or-fifth-favorite T-list Broadway person since last I checked in here:

I moved out of my apartment. I'm really gutted about that. I'm lucky I've still got both of my parents' houses to jettison between (currently at my dad's place in Westchester while I finish up some NYC gig commitments, will mostly be at my mom's place going forward), and I know there will be other places, even better places. But that apartment was the first place that was ever truly mine. It was my elder millennial theatre kid manifestation of the American dream. Still, the core grief is not even about the "financial independence" aspect, or even the "why is capitalism" aspect...the core grief is that I had a place of my own to cultivate community within. I got to have friends over for tea or iced coffee or brunch, I got to cook Christmas dinner for me and my dad, I got to foster my friends' kitty and hang out with my kitties. And I miss that.

I recontracted with the Medicare brokerage I worked for previously. I'm actually excited to get started with them again, especially with the busy season right around the corner, and I was actually planning on returning to them anyway even if Ohio had continued (and my health held up), but the old "don't quit your day job" stigma is still weighing on me today--especially since I'm in "new hire" training right now and having to patiently wait to do all the things I already know how to do and wait for all the actual newbies to catch up. I'm sure I'll feel better about it once I'm back in the swing of things, though.

I am working on a solo show. It was supposed to happen last weekend, but it didn't. It's now most likely happening in January.

I began birth control meds a few years ago when my periods went from "tolerable nuisance" to "incapacitating sensory nightmare." I stopped taking BC as of June 8 so they wouldn't interfere with the cortisol testing.

Mind you: I'd had some intermittent spotting when I was on BC, but it was so brief and occasional that I was getting used to not even needing to keep maxipads around anymore, just an "emergency" bundle of pantyliners. I never bled enough to justify even attempting to use a tampon.

Yesterday, for the first time since 2021, I got my FULLLLLL period.

I was JUST beginning to come to terms with having to stay off BC at least through September to fully determine if my current health problems are a result of BC or if Otis (the cyst/tumor/both on my pituitary gland) is the real culprit. I thought, meh, it's annoying to have to wait, but I don't need this medication THAT badly anyway, it'll be a good way to see how my reproductive system calibrates itself--

Y'ALL. I forgot how AWFUL this is.

I forgot what it's like to be able to smell EVERYTHING--and in New York, there's even more of everything. Like, I can wash the dishes in the dark and know when the pot isn't entirely clean because I can smell a trace amount of olive oil. I can be awakened from sleep because I can SMELL the exact moment one of the cats uses the litterbox (the pine litter absorbs the smell almost instantly, which is amazing, but in the 0.2 seconds between the crap leaving their butt and the litter absorbing the smell, I SMELL IT).

I forgot what it's like to feel EVERY SINGLE ATOM that touches my skin and overthink every article of clothing in my closet before I get dressed for the day. Like, I can shave my legs and then FEEL my hair growing back. I put on a face mask in the doctor's office and my lip eczema is lurking right there with a taser like, "hahahaha, you say you care about public safety, but do you really? How much? *taser zap* HOW ABOUT NOW?"

I forgot the LEG CRAMPS--like, why? Yeah, the uterine liner is shedding, what does that even have to do with my legs? My back, fine. But leave my legs alone.

I forgot, most of all, what it's like to just cry at the smallest things. Like, not JUST the things that make sense to be sad/stressed/angry about, but like, I'll open a box of Scotch-Brite pads and then cry because they're all so perfectly positioned in that bag and I'm about to take one out and separate it from its brothers and sisters and they'll never see it again and now I'm so sad I want to jump off a bridge but I can't because my cats will miss me and I could never do that to my parents and--

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP DOING THIS EVERY MONTH until we figure out whether or not the meds that prevented me from having to do this every month are causing MORE harm?

And if they are, then I'll have to...I don't know, stop taking them? Try something different? And if they're not, then I need to do whatever else we need to do in order to prove that the only reasonable next step is LITERAL BRAIN SURGERY LIKE--?!

The neuroendocrine surgeon and her nurses were patient, compassionate, and highly informative.

I walked away with more questions than answers, and like most autistics, I'm not good at sitting peaceably with the unknown.

The tl;dr is that I may not need surgery after all, but if I do need surgery, it would be a riskier surgery than I previously realized. Either way, we will have to wait at least another six weeks to get a better guess. And from where I'm standing now, that feels like an eternity--especially since, as I've often mentioned, my health insurance runs out at the end of August and by September I'll have to pay the COBRA premium. If I'm as lucky as it's possible to get with the NYS COBRA subsidy for entertainment professionals, that'll come to around $292 a month...which would still be cheaper than a marketplace plan and an overall excellent deal as health insurance goes, but guess what else runs out in August? That's right, my unemployment. And guess what happens if I get another job where I can qualify for any old crap minimum-essential health insurance? That's right, I lose the COBRA subsidy and would be stuck paying the full monthly premium...which, for the coverage I'm getting, would STILL be a better deal than most marketplace plans.

But hey, back in 2009 before the Affordable Care Act, even THAT wasn't an option, and the fact that it IS an option now is one of the main reasons why I keep saying that SOMEDAY we will step back and appreciate how much of a healthcare legislation LEGEND Joseph Robinette Biden really is, but I know you're not here for my oversimplified political takes, so let's get back to the other thing you're not here for:

THE ENDOCRINOLOGY INFO-DUMP, July 30, 2024:

Turns out...it's possible that my overall cortisol production is still being skewed by the birth control medications I stopped taking in early June (at my own discretion, remember, because I knew they would affect the cortisol test results even though the first (mean) endocrinologist said they wouldn't, and then said that they did).

What I had read was that 72 hours off the BC meds was sufficient to avoid interference with the low-dose dexamethasone suppression test--so I went off them in advance of my appointment with the first endo, because I was anticipating the ordering of that test.

I'd also read that four weeks off the BC meds was usually sufficient to rule out any potential interferences. When my second LDDST last week showed an even higher cortisol level than the previous one (meaning, the dexamethasone had suppressed it even less), I took that to mean that no, the BC was clearly not playing a part.

Also, the lab screwed up my second 24-hour urine test by not including the total volume in the lab report (what, did they spill it or something?) so there was no way to extrapolate the necessary data...BUT my first and second set of saliva cortisol tests came back normal--even with a high cortisol concentration in my previous urine test and all my blood serum tests.

Apparently, this "saliva vs. the other bodily fluids" cortisol discrepancy has to do with the fact that the cortisol tests measure both "free" cortisol, and transcortin, which is a protein secreted by the liver that binds to cortisol. A serum cortisol test (blood test) will measure both, while urine and saliva tests are meant to measure "free" cortisol. BUT, apparently, these BC meds can cause increased production of transcortin for up to three months after stopping the medication, and that transcortin production might be reflected in the levels associated with the urine test, but NOT in the saliva test.

To definitively confirm a Cushing's diagnosis, we would need to rule out not only any potential interference with cortisol (e.g. glucocorticosteroids), but also rule out any potential interference with transcortin production (e.g. the birth control meds). And the only way to do that is to just...WAAAAAIT.

BUT WAIT, WHAT ABOUT THE PITUITARY TUMOR?

WELL...enhanced imaging seems to indicate that the growth on my pituitary gland is fluid-filled, which means it's far likelier to be a Rathke's cleft cyst (technically not a tumor) than a pituitary adenoma (technically a tumor).

I'm sick of speculating and over-explaining what it might be, so until further notice, I'm just gonna call it Otis.

The possible good news is, if the September lab work indicates that my hormone levels were just screwed up from the birth control meds, then Otis's presence might have nothing to do with anything, and therefore, I may not need surgery at all.

The downside of that scenario is that it may take my body a long time to fully recover from any deleterious effects of the BC meds on my endocrine system. And that would also likely mean that my periods would become more regular again, which means that monthly spells of sensory nightmares would become more regular as well.

On the other hand, if the cortisol tests and other lab work don't resolve after the BC is definitively out of my system, and the culprit of the issues turns out to be Otis after all...I would need surgery, but not the straightforward transsphenoidal or endoscopic endonasal surgery that I was expecting. Otis is very close to my brain stem and it might be too risky to attempt draining or removing it through the nasal canal. It's possible they'd try to attack it with radiation therapy, but usually they only do that for RCCs that recur after surgical draining, so who even knows.

I'm just gonna say right now, in terms of symptoms and my knowledge of my own experience, I have a sinking feeling that it is Otis causing the problems. But we aren't even going to be able to attempt making a better guess until mid-September.

And what sucks the most is, there's probably nothing to be done for my symptoms in the meantime. Depending on the results of the bloodwork they did today, they might give me Metformin to treat any possible underlying metabolic syndrome (which is also something I suspected early on), but other than that, it's more "hurry up and wait."

I gotta be honest...in addition to all the physical and emotional overwhelm, I feel like my commitment to unlearning internalized ableism is REALLY being tested right now.

Owning my autism was easier. It was liberating. But I'm realizing that some part of me really did want to "be the poster child for 'if [s]he can, then you can.'" Part of me thought, if I had to be autistic, I was going to be a Model Autistic who can do anything the abled neurotypicals can do. I was going to Set An Example. Not a perfect example, but a solid and consistent example of someone who maximizes her potential but stays woke and stays self-aware and checks her privilege and advocates for intersectionality.

That simply isn't true right now. I can't do everything abled neurotypicals can do. My body is tired, weak, and prone to sickness. My voice is exhausted from regular conversation. My skin is dry and itchy and my face can barely tolerate makeup. I have NO appetite, and yet I've gained so much weight, like I can't get comfortable anywhere because there's too much. My stomach and my lymph nodes feel (and are) constantly swollen, my sense of dehydration is constant and I'm not retaining water correctly.

I feel hideously, embarrassingly ineffectual.

And conventional wisdom says "don't put this on the internet, or else you won't get hired." Don't share your behind-the-scenes, don't share the cutting room floor, only share your highlight reel.

Well, I'm sorry, but if acting is "telling the truth," and if art is about "the fullest expression of the human experience," then following those "rules" seems awfully hypocritical to me. Besides, what sort of disability advocate would I be if I didn't share the truth of what's going on, and how it feels?

Disability pride doesn't have to mean being proud of every part of every disability.

In fact, pride really isn't even the right word.

Because I'm not proud. But I'm not ashamed either. I'm just real.

Being honest about what I'm going through doesn't automatically make me a better or more aspirational person, but it doesn't make me a worse person either. It doesn't make me much of anything, really, because what I'm going through does not need to be anybody else's business, but it also doesn't need to be kept a secret. It is mine to do with as I choose, and the value my story might bring to the world has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with the people who hear it, internalize it, and take something away that's valuable to them.

...with the neuroendocrine surgeon! 😜

Confirmed: there is a lesion on my pituitary gland which may be either a pituitary adenoma, a Rathke's cleft cyst that's behaving like a pituitary adenoma, or both. Whatever you wanna call it, it seems to be the source of all this crap, and surgery will be the next step.

I am SO grateful to the scheduling team for following through on their promise to call me the second a cancellation came up so I wouldn't have to wait until mid-September. I can't wait to SKIP off the subway into the UES on Tuesday morning (if not physically, then spiritually). I can't wait to MAYBE HOPEFULLY have surgery scheduled by this time next week, to get this stupid tumor thing off my pituitary gland for good.

I'm starting to feel some sadness about the prospect of leaving this apartment. This second-story walkup studio, the first lease I ever signed. This apartment was my dream for so long. For a whole year, I got to live that dream--and for half of that year, I even got to pay for it myself.

It's weird, as a person who believes in disability pride and abhors capitalism, that my two primary goals right now are (1) obtain this surgery so that I can become healthier, (e.g., less disabled), and (2) in doing so, obtain the ability to work as hard as I can, so I will have a shot at attaining financial independence again, and maybe even retaining it this time.

But no. That's not it. What I want is to feel better, so I can do more things that I love, and earn enough of my keep to have my needs met and be able to give back to the world in a meaningful way.

I want to work because there are so many things I enjoy working at. I want to make money because participating in capitalism is the only way to ultimately free yourself from its trappings and help others do the same.

And also, I want to sing and dance and roller skate and walk in the woods and read all the books and pet all the cats and bake cookies from scratch and engage in all the niche fandom content and visit my family and friends whenever I want and host them for holidays without worrying about whether or not I'll have the energy.

Tuesday will bring me one step closer to all of that. Thank God. God is still good.

A muskrat tries to avenge the death of his mother by attacking the cat who killed her. The muskrat loses the fight, but some guy finds the muskrat's body and keeps it in his freezer as a testament to the creature's bravery and sacrifice.

That is literally what this song is about.

The songwriters are my dear, sweet, brilliant friends Jacob Yandura and Rebekah Greer Melocik.

This is what they were doing before How to Dance in Ohio.

If someone had told me in 2015 that the people who wrote this song would go on to write the musical that gave me my Broadway debut, I would have said, "Yes, that sounds exactly right."

I should text them and ask for more context about this song, or the musical it's from (which is called Wrangler). But I'm not going to do that. I'm just going to release this from their vault into the Tumblr wilderness and see what happens.

Idk, I think this could have made it into Ohio. Maybe if it turns into a series.

Which character would keep a dead muskrat in their freezer? I'm torn between Caroline and Tommy. Probably Tommy. Caroline would try, but Johanna is too much of a helicopter parent for her to get away with it. I think Tommy's parents would just be like "ok dude, whatever makes you happy and keeps you away from Scott's truck."

My MRI report came in yesterday.

I'm not gonna get too deep into the medical details until I've had a chance to discuss it in-depth with the professionals (which unfortunately probably won't be until Monday at the earliest), but I do have some things I need to say about it.

First: I'm okay. My life is not in danger. Making these discoveries now has undoubtedly saved me years of struggle that may well have gone on to endanger my life. Instead, I get to address the source of many ongoing issues and most likely cure them all. Don't get me wrong, it's a pretty big deal, but not a big scary deal.

Second: yes, I will need surgery. This has not been officially confirmed and its safety signed off on by a doctor, but from reading everything I can get my eyeballs on, I don't see any reason under the sun why surgery would not be the logical and urgent (but not like, emergency urgent) next step.

Again, I'm not gonna go too deep into the details until I understand it better and we have a game plan in place. But I have to talk a little bit about the feelings that are bubbling up around all of this.

My condition, and the particular way it has manifested, is exceedingly rare. I mentioned one of the tests I took to a doctor who had to be older than my parents, and he said, "I have not heard those words in that order since medical school." Of course, I know that just because something is rarely reported doesn't necessarily mean its existence is rare. But in my case, it seems like it's both.

I'm a Broadway actress with no medical background and I somehow figured out what was going on in my body even though it was ridiculously unlikely to be true. And now the doctors have no choice but to acknowledge these discoveries.

I would not have discovered any of these things if it hadn't been for the show closing when it did, my ovarian demon babies causing trouble when they did, having that surgery when I did, and having a chance conversation with a friend who just happened to be marrying a friend I've known since high school (and wouldn't have known if it hadn't been for our one shared chorus class)...any tiny alterations to that timeline could have led to a completely new timeline.

I miss our show every minute of every day. My heart misses it. My bank account misses it. But also, if the show was still running, I'd be physically struggling even more, and I would not have had the time and freedom to pursue the solutions. If the show was still running, and I was still pushing myself to continue with it, it might have caused irreparable (or at least excruciatingly-slow-to-repair) damage.

The sheer statistical likelihood of everything that's happened, everything happening, everything that is in my life right now, is staggeringly low. Practically impossible.

And so, once again I find myself saying, I can't not believe in God. I can't not believe that my life and my purpose were by design and by a Designer.

I could dig deep into arguments about the finer points of theology all day. I could happily lose myself in Bible study--not just the literal words, but the history and cultural context for all of it. I could "academic" my Christianity to death the same way I "academic" everything else in my life to death. By that logic, some would argue, I shouldn't even be a Christian. "Walk by faith and not by sight," and what have you.

But I believe--and this tends to ruffle feathers of Christians and atheists alike--that one must walk by faith only after sight is entirely exhausted. My faith is rooted in the question of what happens when the science stops sciencing. My faith is rooted in the question of, why would humans be driven by a sense of purpose and an impulse to know the answers, unless the answers were meant to be known to us? Even if the answers change nothing, even if our sated curiosity has no practical value, we delight in it.

I think walking by sight often and inevitably leads to faith. Digging deep into science and logic brings us closer to God, not farther away.

Discovering all the things I just discovered about my brain and my body has strengthened my commitment to all the things I feel called to do. And rectifying the situation will enable me to live out those callings with more energy and effectiveness than I've ever had.

I can't conceive of a reality in which that wasn't done on purpose.

^^^ THAT'S MEEEEEE! ^^^

I barely slept last night.

I woke up 24 minutes after 8:00, which was 25 minutes later than I wanted to wake up, but I got through to EviCore (Cigna's pre-authorization team) immediately.

I was given superb, kind, calm, clear customer service. I was given the authorization number and the rep put me on a three-way call with the clinic that had booked me for Thursday's appointment.

Before I hung up, the rep said, "You should call them back in a few minutes. Cancellations happen all the time, and they have a ton of locations, and your authorization is approved for all of them. You might get seen today." It felt like a blessing.

I took some time to get dressed, feed the cats and scoop the box, and otherwise prepare to RUN out the door if necessary, and then called back. By now it was around 9:20.

They had an opening for a 10:00 appointment, with a 9:30 arrival time, "but that's probably too soon."

I clocked the subway ride and said, "I can be there in twelve to fifteen minutes, is that ok?"

It was.

Y'all I've never been happier to SPRINT into the subway station in my life. I've never been happier to live in the HEART of Manhattan. Even though the train was briefly delayed, and even though it was so humid that breathing felt more like drinking, I made it to lower Chelsea by 9:39.

I was nowhere in the realm of looking cute. My skin was blotchy, my eyes were swollen and bloodshot from sleeplessness and allergies, I was sweating from every single pore, and my limply frizzed night-shower-not-fully-dried hair made the scraggliest rats embarrassed for me. And the office was running a bit behind schedule because their computers were slow from the heat--their main compressor is on the ROOF. But that was fine by me. I had all day.

I didn't need all day, though. I got it done.

And I got it covered in full.

I didn't have to fight.

And now I'm just staring at the images, trying to see what they will tell me, but alas, my scientific literacy is limited to the literal, so I'll have to wait for a real professional to call me back and use terminology that's more advanced than "WOW LOOK AT THAT WEIRD GLOWY EYE!"

But, actually though...look at that weird glowy eye.

Dearest reader: This should be a simple health update, but instead, it's an obnoxiously detailed info-dump written by the kind of person who knows more than most people about American health insurance but is still surprised at how it continues to find new and innovative ways to suck. If this is not the type of thing your brain or nervous system wants to wrap itself around, I don't blame you one bit, but if it is, I hope you'll at least walk away having learned something or being at least mildly entertained. If not, feel free to

SCROLL TO THE END FOR A HTDIO-ADJACENT CAT VIDEO!

When last we left our third-or-fourth-favorite mildly niche-famous T-list Broadway person, she was finally on the brink of getting a brain and pituitary MRI. This was supposed to happen on Friday.

But I wasn't allowed to get the MRI on Friday because Cigna's pre-authorization was still pending and there was nothing my doctor could do to escalate its urgency, nor could they withdraw the order. They couldn't do anything at all until the third-party organization that approves the pre-authorizations signed off on its medical necessity.

Look, I get it. This is an expensive and labor-intensive procedure, so they have to be thorough. I mean, sure, my doctor said it was medically necessary, and sure, they sent the additional clinical information to confirm its medically necessity, and sure, every order at every stage was marked as urgently medically necessary, and it was sent for processing on Monday, but how can they REALLY be sure it's medically necessary until my case is also reviewed by doctors who have NEVER seen me, and don't work weekends or holidays, and will get around to reviewing it at their own leisure? The folks at the radiology clinic rescheduled me in their next available spot and maintained that they'd contact me as soon as possible to fill any upcoming cancellation spots.

A ridiculous mildly annoying setback was that their next available appointment wasn't until July 26. They couldn't attempt to book me at any of the other dozens of clinics affiliated with this hospital network, because the pre-authorization is site-specific, which is like buying someone a gift card from the Starbucks on my block only to find out that they won't honor it at the Starbucks two blocks down perfectly reasonable, because I'm sure every site has differences that can't be perceived from a patient perspective.

Oh, and the existence of a pending pre-authorization prevented them from doing the MRI that day even if I'd had $8K in cash to pay out of pocket for the procedure. Which is perfectly reasonable, because why shouldn't American healthcare policy punish rich people too? I'm sure it's many flavors of unethical for one doctor to do something without the approval of another doctor even though the doctor whose approval it hangs on has NEVER SEEN ME.

One fellow in particular--I'll call him Quincy--gave me some insider info on how to prepare for the types of advocacy he's had to do in the past with this particular pre-authorization team, and which numbers to call and questions to ask. He isn't technically supposed to know this stuff and also isn't technically supposed to share it, but says he does it all the time anyway--hence why I'm keeping him anonymous. Quincy isn't his real name, but Quincy is a real one, and I took in his information like a medieval warrior selecting the choicest armor to prepare for battle the informed and fully compliant patient I strive to be.

Anyway, a few persistent phone calls later, a Cigna rep informed me that the middlemen would approve the pre-authorization for the MRI on the condition that I get the procedure done at a standalone radiology facility instead of a hospital-affiliated facility. Which is like buying someone a gift card that could only be honored at Starbucks kiosks located inside Target stores, but not at a standalone Starbucks or anywhere else in Target perfectly reasonable, I know the insurance companies don't wanna have to spend hospital prices any more than I do. So I spent a great deal of time yesterday looking up non-hospital-affiliated radiology clinics that were in-network.

I made an appointment with one clinic for Thursday. But I also made an appointment request at a different clinic for Monday morning, just in case they could see me sooner--because I knew this clinic didn't accept Medicare or Medicaid, and were therefore exempt from the requirement of third-party pre-authorization. (Pro-tip: even if you do have Medicare or Medicaid, always try to bypass pre-authorization for diagnostic procedures, especially if you have a particularly high in-network deductible--it's entirely possible that paying out of pocket for a service at an out-of-network provider could cost less than the amount you'd have to pay towards your deductible at at in-network facility. American math.)

THIS MORNING, I woke up at 8am to a phone call from the latter clinic, saying that if I sent them the doctor's prescription, they could pre-authorize the procedure and see me tomorrow. So that's what I did...and then I got an email saying that they couldn't accept a prescription for an MRI with and without contrast because they don't have contrast at that facility. Which is like finally securing a coveted reservation at an elite steakhouse only to find out they don't season their steak or even have steak sauce perfectly reasonable, because not everyone needs contrast, but I do, so that place was out.

But as far as I've been told, Thursday's appointment should go off without a hitch as long as I call EviCore (the pre-authorization middlemen) tomorrow morning to tell them all about the not-hospital that will be giving me a not-hospital-priced MRI, so that they can grant the pre-authorization at long last.

Perhaps if I plead my case and bat my eyes at them real cute-like through the phone, they'll give me some other reason why it's actually not medically necessary for me to know definitively whether or not I have a literal brain tumor I can get seen even sooner than Thursday.

FUNNY STORY THOUGH...

A couple weeks ago I was talking to a friend from church who was going through a lot of the same stuff as I was, and I was like "idk, maybe get your cortisol checked?" and lo and behold, he messaged me back a few days ago saying that he'd found a new doctor and asked him to do just that, and WITHIN A DAY his doctor ordered ALL the labs I'd fought for (serum blood cortisol, low-dose dexamethasone suppression test, 24-hour urine, saliva, etc.) AND an MRI for suspected Cushing's.

And he completed ALL OF THAT within a week.

Although he did have to suffer for quite a while before I floated the possibility of Cushing's, just like my friend Alan had to suffer for years before his own endocrinologists floated the possibility of Cushing's. Still, they both got that MRI the second it WAS floated, without a fight, and I'm genuinely happy for them.

But I can't help wondering how much quicker and easier this whole process would have been for me if I were a man. Or if I was neurotypical. Or if I still had a choice about whether or not to disclose being autistic. But mostly if I were a man.

THIS IS THE END! HERE IS THE HTDIO-ADJACENT CAT VIDEO YOU WERE PROMISED!

I'm fostering my friends' exquisite tuxedo princessfloof for a few weeks. Chevy and Tex are being very accommodating foster siblings, but she's much younger and is used to being the only pet, so naturally it took her a while to acclimate.

But there was one thing she took to immediately: the How to Dance in Ohio fidget spinner.

I'm so excited to report that this Friday afternoon, I'm finally getting some new headshots taken...of the INSIDE of my head.

That's right, folks. After showing the lab work and pleading my case to the fine folks at the Friedman Center (and they really are terrific), ya girl finally got her brain/pituitary MRI approved.

Miraculously, I recovered from COVID ridiculously quickly. The symptoms resolved over a couple days, and I was already testing negative by Wednesday. Two more antigens and a PCR test later, I determined I'd be in the clear to be in my friend's wedding, although I still wore a mask--and the patron saints of Amazon search results blessed me with this set of KN95s, which included a bright blue one in the EXACT COLOR of my bridesmaid dress.

I never thought I'd be sitting here actively hoping to have a literal brain tumor, but between the fatigue, the listlessness, the lack of appetite, the stubborn and aggressive weight gain in spite of a lack of appetite, the fatigue, the significantly compromised immune system (this bout with COVID was my third weird viral infection in two months), the obnoxiously slow wound healing (there's a staple-scratch on my hand that's been there since March), the skin-thinning and skin-drying, and did I mention the fatigue...it sure would be great to have a straightforward answer and a clear path forward.

And, most importantly, it's the perfect excuse to be dramatic.

Just imagine the not-as-anonymous-as-they-think-they-are message board posts: "Ashley Wool teases a possible brain tumor as a last-ditch attempt to stay relevant in the Broadway world." "I heard she grew it on purpose just like those ovarian tumors." "Gurl well I heard the bitch was actually kicked out of Broadway Bares 'cause her autistic ass couldn't handle the noise." "Well I heard the bitch got hit by three zebras and a monkey. I can't stand the bitch no way."

Sooooo...I've been feeling under the weather all this past week, but I chalked it up to the extreme heat + regular seasonal allergies + all the endocrinological weirdness I've been experiencing lately + the stress of trying to definitively identify the source of this endocrinological weirdness + the stress of all the labwork pointing to me having a literal brain tumor and the endocrinologist blowing me off + general unemployment stress + the uncertainty of how my health condition might impact future employment, etc. etc. etc.

But on Saturday night--the night before Broadway Bares--I developed a cough that felt suspiciously and hauntingly familiar.

I took an extra allergy pill and tried to sleep it off, but it was worse in the morning. My deeply-ingrained people-pleasing toxic hustle culture good little theatre kid wanted me to ignore it and push through it. But my conscience was like, "you're literally about to perform for thousands of people in a massive event supporting PUBLIC HEALTH, you're the world's worst hypocrite if you don't at least check."

So I dug up one of the rapid COVID tests I'd kept from that one week in January when our cast was stretched to the limit with swings, swabbed my nose, dropped three droplets, and turned to wash my hands.

Before I even had a chance to dry them, the double line was there, clear as day, the test line already thicker and darker than the control line.

I'm obviously incredibly bummed that I had to back out of the show, especially the DAY OF the show, but at least I got a good amount of pity donations as a result! And I'm still holding out hope that I'll hit my admittedly lofty fundraising goal and distribute the donor prizes accordingly.

So far, this is a much milder and objectively less devastating case than my last (and first) go-around with COVID in the fall of 2022, which contributed to the early closure of Ohio in Syracuse. Really, the only good things about that experience were the delirious text convos I had with Wilson Jermaine Heredia (who'd gotten sick at the same time), the spectacular burgers I got delivered from Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, and finding out that one of my best friends had just gotten engaged to a spectacular man, and asked me to be her bridesmaid.

Now I just need to pray to God that I test negative before Saturday, which is THE DAY OF THAT EXACT WEDDING. 🙃

In better news, though, I have a telehealth appointment this afternoon with a doctor at the Friedman Center (where they actually listen to me), I have a self-tape due on Wednesday for a role I'm really excited about (and I feel well enough to get it done), and I still have the most supportive family and friends in the world.

OH YEAH AND, nothing is set in stone yet, but it looks like we might be having an in-store event at the Drama Book Shop for the Ohio vocal selections book launch day. So...stay tuned for that!

It took me a moment to figure out what you meant by "amperstans" but oh my GAWSH I don't think there's ever been a more brilliant fandom name in the history of fandom names, and YES, OF COURSE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I'll be honest, I've been putting off seeing the show itself, because ideally I want to go with my best friend from elementary school who's only in New York intermittently. Those songs were the soundtrack to our childhood, and my inner child is particularly thrilled that "Show Me Love" is included.

Gen Z, if you have never listened to Robyn Is Here, consider that your summer homework from Grandma Millennial. For the authentic 90's kid experience, get the CD, and play it in a brightly-colored CD player. Yes, the color matters. Extra credit if it's translucent. Enjoy in the summer sun with your favorite Fla-Vor-Ice, preferably tinted with Bonne Bell Lip Smackers.