There’s a tasteful view of the cemetery from the window of my hospital room.
In fact, when I went for a trek with mom the other day (her walking while pushing me in a wheelchair), I told her to just drop me off, haha! Ugh. Dark humor is the best kind of humor. Apparently it’s supposed to make you funnier? As if I could get any funnier! 😉 But let me tell ya, having had cancer for a FUCKING SECOND TIME I’m either getting funnier or… well, no, I’m probably just getting funnier. I was going to say giving less fucks, but I don’t think that’s remotely possible.
As much as I look at this whole situation with humor and determination, I definitely have my “meh” days. According to me, self-appointed Dr. Katie, “meh” is both an accurate and legitimate term for, but not limited to: depressed, heavy, feeling self-pity, mopey, or otherwise just not in the mood to really do anything except feel, well, shitty.
Occasionally these days occur as a result of shitty weather (don’t ever underestimate the power of the sunshine!! It makes all the difference in the world. And the same can be said about dreary, overcast days… the meh days), or a discomfort (having my fucking PICC dressing changed is just about the WORST FUCKING THING. It’s not even that big of a deal. And I realize that. And yet I stress out and get incredibly anxious for it), or, yknow, anything else that a moment deems appropriate for meh-ing.
I think these days are necessary. As important as it is to be happy and optimistic, full of life and laughter, it’s equally important to shed tears of anger, fear, sorrow. Yin & Yang.
But FUCK do I hate the meh days. I hate them with a burning passion. I hate feeling weak, I hate feeling pitiful. And yet, sometimes I feel that way.
The highs are so very, very high. And the lows can be so very, very low.
So low, in fact, that what is required to snap back to reality, oh! There goes gravity… whoops, my inner Eminem came out for a second there, my bad… where was I? Oh yeah. The only way to get back to a lighter, happier state is to cry.
But not just any cry, oh no.
An Ugly Cry.
The kind where your face contorts in ways you didn’t know was possible, where your face is leaking so many fluids you’re not sure whether what just dripped into your mouth was snot or tears, and your shirt (provided you’re wearing one– hey, I’ll be the last person to judge!) is soaked with a combination of snot, tears and drool, maybe other fluids, too, I dunno your life!
Usually, for me, it’s a combination of small things that add up over time and then sits, waiting, for the last little nudge to push me over the edge. The sadness usually lives somewhere deep inside of me, slowly gathering strength before that last thing does me in… and then my face explodes like a volcano of bodily juices. I could probably produce enough snot/spit/tears to encase people in a boogery-molding, like a human Mt. Vesuvius. Better hope ya’ll aren’t hangin’ out in Pompeii when I erupt!
I think the biggest things that contributed to my most recent ugly cry (which occurred maybe 20-30 minutes ago) was headlined by the fact that 1) I relapsed 2) I have to do this whole FUCKING RODEO ALL OVER AGAIN 3) I’m scared.
Ah, yes. That last lil tidbit of information is a powerful one. What am I scared of? The unknown.
I wish I could grab the doctors by the shoulders and shake them– demanding that they FUCKING FIX ME.
That’s all I want.
Just fix me.
Let me get back to my life. Let me live through this, and come out the other side an even stronger person than I am now. I’m terrified that if I go somewhere else for treatment/transplant (if U of M doesn’t cater to what I will need), I’m so very afraid that I’ll never see home again.
I think that’s the biggest thing, aside from, yknow, the whole dying in the first place thing. And the thing is, is that I’m not so afraid of death itself, as I am all the things that I would miss out on. The things that are “guaranteed”. I want to go back to school and get my Bachelor’s, and then, hell, maybe even my Master’s! I want to be there for my friends through this crazy fucking ride called life. I want to travel. I want to get married. I don’t know if I want kids yet, but I’m certain I want animals! I want to be with my family and be a part of their future (whether my brothers agree with that, who knows 😉 ). I want to live.
I want to live.
There it is.
To exist is one thing, but I want to live.
I want to be able to do things with my life. And there’s so much that I have planned, or at least sort of decided I’d like to do.
Of course, if this rodeo ends in the less favorable way, I won’t have anything to worry about. I’ll be dead. There’s not a whole lot you can do or miss or feel sad about after that little event happens. But I would feel so horribly guilty and awful. Bet you never expected this post to get so nitty gritty, huh? I didn’t really, either. But here we are.
I fear for how it would impact my family. I fear for how it would impact my friends. All feelings that I wouldn’t have to worry about once it happened. But here and now it freaks me out so fucking much.
There are so many reasons that I’m afraid, but to elaborate would take hours of typing and even more hours of reading. So, instead, I’ll say this:
I’m a MOTHER FUCKING FIGHTER.
I will not let any of these fears impact my fight negatively. I will fucking FIGHT. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. I don’t know where this path is taking me exactly, but I’m damn sure that it’s taking me to my future. I’ve got a lot of life left to live, and I intend to live it out to the fullest. When this battle is done, and I’m standing on the battlefield victorious, I will follow my heart and my dreams. I will live to the fullest possible extent of life. I will appreciate every moment, and cherish every opportunity I’m given.
There will be an end to this fucking nightmare.
I will be victorious.