Day ???

Uh yeah so this whole “I’m-gonna-keep-y’all-updated-day-by-day” bullshit obviously didn’t work. I mean, I did day 0, so that was a pretty strong start, eh?

Okay but I guess I’m using too much of my limited brain power on figuring out the days. Like, midnight starts the new day, BUT my chemos are hung at like 10pm and go until 10pm the next night and FUCK I’m just one big ball of WTF. Anyway. Whatever. Here’s some updates on things:

First of all, my armpits smell fuckin’ rank as SHIT. Like, I didn’t realize my body could smell so horrible. Okay, that’s not true, I know that my body can smell a hell of a lot worse, but SHIT my pits have never been this awful. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like a haunting combination of BO and burning plastic. Or maybe cheaply made plastic products from China, I don’t know. It smells toxic, but in a different way than my chemo farts, if that’s any indication of the level of toxicity we’re talking about here… like my armpits were hate-fucked by a melting plastic dildo. That’s my final try at accurately portraying the level of “sweet-Jesus-what-is-that-smell” radiating from the hairy crevasses beneath my arms.

Secondly, chemo is a fuckin’ bastard. Fuckin’ hell! All is well, I think, just starting to feel bleh and ready to be done with this garbage. FUCK!

Last night started one of the higher-intensity chemos, so I have four more round of that bad boy to go. It runs over two hours, so physiologically it’s easier for me to deal with than if it was running 24 hours straight like the other chemo– Topetican or some shit like that. This heavy-hitter that runs over two hours has the potential for capillary leakage which is why I have to have an IV steroid beforehand to help limit that. Because yeah I don’t really want the chemo getting outside of my circulartory system. That’s what it’s called, yeah? Yeah. Chemo brain for the win, yo.

Speaking of chemo brain, though, that shit is real life! I’ve experienced it before (yknow, since I’ve undergone four previous rounds of chemo– cheers!) but never to the extent that I have been feeling it this time around. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that since I was taken on as a pediatric patient (thank you thank you thank you to the doc who took me on to get me down to 7E!) I now have to be treated as such. Peds patients undergoing chemo for blood cancers (I’m totally guess at that, but it makes sense to me, cause, yknow, that’s what I’m undergoing and I’m basically a peds patient– back to the story, though!) also require IT (introthecal) chemo. So it’s a lumbar puncture with chemo put into your spinal fluid; yknow, casual stuff. I guess it’s like a spinal tap or something? Sure, sounds good to me.

Anyway, I’m knocked out on my Jackson Juice (propofol) so it doesn’t really matter to me what they do when I’m under. And when I come to, I actually don’t feel the injection site which is a nice little bonus. But what I do feel is the chemo brain. And holy shit fuck does that hit hard and fast! It starts out as a sort of haziness of the mind, almost like I’m dreaming and can’t tell if the things that I am experiencing are real life or a dream. It becomes difficult for my mouth to keep up with the words my brain is producing while I talk, so I trip over my words more often than usual (which, let’s be honest, is a good deal of the time) but then as I struggle to keep up I can lose my train of thought. That bitch leaves the station and doesn’t look back! Bitch. I also am much more forgetful than I would be otherwise. Not to say I always remember everything, but with chemo brain I tend to ask a lot of the same questions over a short period of time which I’m not sure is more obnoxious to me or the people that I’m asking.

So it’s a pretty fun time, as you can imagine. I mean, if you didn’t already think this wild ride was a fun time 😉

Other things that have happened regarding chemo over the past few days that I totally DROPPED THE FUCKING BALL is that I was on one type of chemo that required me to shower, have my PICC dressing changed, have my bedding/clothing changed every six hours for 24 hours. Thank Jesus that this was just a one-dose ordeal because that shit was fucking annoying. As shitty as I sometimes feel my situation is, I know that it could always be worse. Little annoyances like the every-six-hour deal can be something that some people undergo for days on end. And here I am, with one little dose (I didn’t even have to finish the last bath/change thing because they talked to a bunch of people who decided the dose was low enough that I wasn’t at risk for the skin irritation they were looking for) and shit mad respect for the kids that can do that shit for days. I was a puss about it, gonna be totally honest. Started out strong, there, for a little bit… but that midnight and 6am shower were straight from Hell. And the dressing changes?? Fuck! As great as I’ve been with my PICC line this time around, dressing changes remain the highest stressor. I would gladly take three nupogen shots a day if it meant I never had to have my dressing changed ever again. Ugh. Anxiety through the fucking roof! But again, I only had to do undergo like five changes– and most of them were just gauze and tape, not the actual dressing. I swear, as badass as I feel sometimes, I can totally pussy out at some weak ass shit.

I think today is technically day 4 (gonna try to not hurt my head too much with figuring those specifics out), but I guess what matters is that this show is on the road! Every day that passes is one closer to returning to normal– and this time, for fuckin’ REAL. ‘Cause you know you’ve been in the hospital for far too long when 1) you know just about all the names of all the drugs for different purposes, which ones work and which ones don’t so you just straight up ask/sort of tell the nurses or docs what you want. 2) you become so comfortable with the routine of hospital living that more often than not you can sleep relatively well through the night, trusting your subconscious mind to stick out an arm when it’s time for late night/early morning vitals/lab draws/etc 3) you’re basically bff’s with a lot of the nurses/docs/staff 4) the days cloud together so much that what feels like three weeks turns out to have actually been over five or six.


Oh, also, 5) you know the code to get into the tub room. Have I talked about the tub room yet?? It’s a fucking magical place, with a huge ass recliner bathtub that goes up to 109 degrees… throw in some bubble bath, turn the lights off, and shit, man. That room makes the whole living in the hospital thing a bit more bearable. Bareable? Gonna claim chemo brain and laziness on that one. Sorry not sorry.

Alright, I need to go clean these pits… the smell is making my foggy chemo brain even worse… dear God.

Throwback Thursday

It has been decided that Thursday’s will now feature a throwback memory relating to my adventure with cancer, so get pumped for some delightful tales. And also, rest assured that I will still be attempting to keep up with monitoring the progression of this round of chemo.

So, today’s throwback memory of choice is one that I am particularly proud of: The Story of My Projectile Vomit.

Way back when I was on 8A during my initial induction round of chemo (October ’15) I had one of the most remarkable and life-defining moments of my entire life. I had just finished nibbling on some hospital food– a hamburger and some lasagna– when I migrated to the bathroom to pee. The chemo had been pretty rough on my body, and I was nauseous a lot of the time and was lucky when I could sneak a couple bites of food. It was also because of these frequent spells of nausea that I had developed an emergency hand gesture for “get me a fucking garbage can pronto ’cause I’m about to vom hardcore”. The gesture was something along the lines of a panicked “come here” that was understood by my parents as “come here– with a fucking garbage can”. Together, we got that whole exchange down to a science.

Anyway, on this particular day, I had made it to the bathroom to take care of business when I was hit with the all-to-familiar sensation of impending doom. I made my emergency hand gesture, and was quickly greeted with the familiar sight of the inside of a trash can. As with many of these situations, all it took was seeing the welcoming opening to push me over the edge. However, instead of the usual short heaves of vomit punctuated by shaking breaths of misery, I opened my mouth and released the most impressive spout of puke I have ever seen in my life.

Truly this was a memorable moment. A life-defining moment. The pinnacle of my vomiting career.

My eyes were clenched shut, much like they always are when I begin to vomit. But as the massive spurt continued, I opened my eyes in stunned wonder.

Sure enough, the gushing stream of vomit was continuing. It was amazing, like a cartoon or something that you’d only ever seen in a movie. It almost seemed like the forceful stream projecting from my face hole was wider than my actual mouth– fucking intense and equally captivating. It reached a point where I started to think that I was going to die– and not from cancer, but from my insane puke. I needed to take a fuckin’ breath, but the vomit just continued. Had the garbage can not been there, I have no doubt that the fire hose of puke would have gone at least five or six feet. It was hitting the side of the trash can with enough force that the splashback was spattering my face– if you haven’t gathered yet, this was like the puke of a lifetime, the puke of the century! I wish I’d have known what was going to go down because you best believe I’d’ve (that’s a new hybrid word I just created) had someone catch it on film. Fuckin’ power puke. No description can do it justice.

I’m totally digging these throwback things! It’ll be a fun way to catch up on things I haven’t discussed while also keeping up with things that are going on now.

Day 0

Because the chemo orders were so complicated, I didn’t start this TVTC treatment until late last night, so the days are all confusing for my chemo-fogged brain, so we will see how long I can keep up and keep the days in order!

Technically today is still day 0.

Fuck, man.

Well, actually less fuck than if I didn’t start this for another week. I’m glad the show is on the road. Especially after the whole finding-blasts-in-the-spinal-fluid ordeal. This all seems much more manageable now, and for that, I’m very thankful. I’m also thankful that we are jumping in headfirst with treatment because it give my stupid shitty cells less time to be stupid idiots and reproduce like rabbits. So that’s where we’re at!

Also, an added bonus is that I don’t restart the nupogen shots until like day 8! What a bargain. I can get behind that fosho.

Oh, but also another update is that my chemo brain is remarkably bad (and this is still only day 0– fuckkkkkk!) so bear with me through the inevitable struggles haha.

So what else, what else? Ah yes, I think I have the start of a sinus infection setting in. Which really sucked this morning because of all the pressure behind my eyes and cheekbones, but I took a bath (in the remarkable bathtub here– complete with bubbles and 109 degree water!) and then napped for close to two hours, and damn that nap really helped me out some. I’ll probably change my outlook on this next statement eventually, but for now, I think it’s pretty funny that I have this on set of a sinus infection. When I was in for transplant I was positive for Influenza A which was super awesome, and now here I am again, preparing to go into this kick-ass treatment with another somethin’ tagging along. I guess I just don’t want to be overly boring. Fuck.

But in general I feel good for now. Every day that I wake up is a day I am thankful for. It’s interesting how my outlook on life changed once with my initial diagnosis of AML, and now it’s changing all over again with this whole relapse situation. It’s not a bad thing, more like it just makes me appreciate the little things even more than I did before. It’s crazy to think how much is taken for granted in this world, and I wonder how different it would be if people had even the smallest fraction more appreciation for the little things.

Sort of on that same note is that one of the docs here is doing tons of research into AML and treatment for it which is incredible, and I’ve volunteered/agreed to provide her with both blood and bone marrow samples of my shitty cells. I love that I am able to do this, though, because I know that I’m helping advance research to help cure AML, which is pretty much a really shitty kind of leukemia to get. Cheers!

Knowing that I am helping in even the smallest way is a really rewarding feeling. I definitely like to think that this whole shit show is going to turn out well for me and that it’ll be an added bonus knowing that the cells that were previously collected from me will continue to provide helpful information, but at the same time it kind of eases my mind that if things don’t turn out as I plan I’ll still be helping advance research and will potentially be helping others down the line even if I’m not here to see that happen. Holy run-on sentence!

Anyway, this is where I’m at in treatment. Tomorrow sounds like it’ll be exciting because I’m going to be getting this chemo that is excreted through my skin, which means that I’ll have to bathe every six hours and also have my PICC dressing changed just as often. I’m thankful it’s just for 24 hours, because dressing changes are the fucking WORST. Still. After all I’ve been through, having my dressing changed remains one of the most anxiety-producing events of my life. So you can believe I’m pretty excited to have it happen like four times a day, even if it’s just for one day. But it could always, always always be worse.

So here I am– day 0– starting out strong and hoping that it continues this way!



There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.

“Maybe,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.

“Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.

“Maybe,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.

“Maybe,” said the farmer.


Well, a lot has happened during the last 24 hours.

The plan that we thought was in order was turned on its head after my biopsy and lumbar puncture since it was discovered that there were leukemic blasts in my spinal fluid. So that was a big what the fuck. Really threw me into a tail spin of darkness and, quite frankly, hopelessness.

Now, I keep that Taoist story in mind. But, for the sake of talking about yesterday, I’ll explain what went down and how I felt about it at the time.

There was a lot of vulgarity (no surprise there!) and anger– it feels like when it rains it pours and that I can never catch a fucking break. The discovery of the fucked up spinal fluid put off the chemo regimen that they had planned for me, as they wanted to get a grasp on fixing my spinal fluid before advancing to the rest of my treatment. To do so, I had to undergo a MRI to determine whether or not the fucker cells had gathered in my brain.

You can imagine that was not exactly what I wanted to hear. The idea of having the cancer cells gather in my brain was pretty fucking terrifying, and not really something that I had even considered as a possibility (I mean, having cancer at all is fucked up enough; how much worse could it get? The Answer: pretty much a lot fucking worse. So while having cancer at all sucks complete and total ass, I suppose it could always be worse).

Well, with the dawn of the new day came new information.

The MRI scans came back clear!!!!!!! Fuckin’ HELL YEAH! And, it also turns out that the blast that they found in my spinal fluid were found only after the fluid was spun out completely (you know, when they put stuff in those science-y spinny do-dads to accomplish science-y things with… science). This means that I’m in a good category for killing off those fuckin’ hosers (Canadian term, look it up if you don’t know what that means) before they cause too much of an issue– so that’s a beauty right thurr! On top of that, they decided to move my next lumbar puncture (LP) to Friday as opposed to Thursday and to start my chemo today!! This is great because it will sucker-punch all those shitty-ass cancer punks right in the GOD DAMN face before they have anymore time to flood my system with their tomfoolery.

I’m feeling pretty confident knowing that treatment it going to start up today. I think I’m always going to be an anxious ball of nerves– at least under the surface– but I am feeling good about this. Not excited about how shitty I’ll be feeling in the next few days, but I’d rather feel shitty from chemo than shitty from, you know, having my system flooded with shitty-ass cancer cells AKA DYING. Nothing seems so bad when compared to that alternative; not when you’re as stubborn and as determined to live as I am. I’ve got a lot of life left to live, and I intend to kick this cancer to the CURB. I must have been too gentle with it the last time I beat its ass, so this time… this time I’m taking no prisoners. I’m fucking it up FOR GOOD.

Moral of this portion of the story?


Once More Into the Fray

Well, apparently the last round of chemo didn’t put me into remission, so there’s that.

We’ve all learned quite a bit these last few days– well, okay, it’s been more like a week but still. The dumb doctors come in and gave me three options (really though they only gave me two):

1) high intensity chemo that will kick my ass (probably)

2) moderate intensity chemo that will probably take 2-3+ rounds to achieve remission. This option is also a mix of inpatient and outpatient treatments

3) do nothing but symptom management because “at this point it would be completely understandable if I didn’t want to do anything” ??????? What the actual FUCK though?????

So anyway, those were the options that they gave me (which as you can see, they really only gave me two options because FUCK that last one). I was iffy about which one to choose out of the top two, but was leaning towards #1. Going into this I decided to go in guns a-blazing, ready to fuck this cancer shit up once and for all, and option #1 definitely was the kick-ass option… even if it meant kicking my ass in the process. But then at the same time the idea of being able to be home was quite tempting, though doing a treatment a month for several months didn’t exactly seem like fun– I want this shitshow to be over as quickly as possible because I am so fucking tired of all this bullshit. But, just because I’m tired absolutely does NOT mean that I’m ready to throw in the towel. In fact, I’m angry, stubborn and feelin’ dangerous.

So anyway, long story short, I decided to do the high intensity option. It will be comprised of four different chemos and will be given over seven days, and then a final dose of one chemo will be given around day 14. Today is day 0.

Provided that this round puts me into remission, I will (at some point relatively soon after the completion of the regimen) go to CHOP (Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia) for my transplant. The shitty thing about my situation is that I’m “old”, meaning I’m in this kind of weird place between pediatric and adult, and I’ve also already undergone a lot of chemo and another transplant.

The thing with leukemia is that although the cells are fucking stupid as shit in the sense that they’re fucked up stupid idiots, they’re also really fucking smart at adapting to treatments and sort of “evolving”, making repeated courses of chemo potentially less effective. And the fact that I’ve already had a transplant puts me in a weird spot because I guess that means that I’m really only eligible for studies as opposed to an actual straight-up transplant. So that’s kind of shitty. However, the good news is that we did find a study that I’m able to be a part of. Once I’m in remission, we will head down that route, using my older brother Mickey as the donor (we’re haploid matches, meaning 50% of our bone marrow markers match).

So that’s kinda the outlook at this point.

Today’s agenda is an exciting one– I get a bone marrow biopsy as well as a lumbar puncture (never had one of those before! So they’re gonna, well, puncture my lumbar and put chemo into my spine, so that’s pretty neat, super duper pumped for that shit) and then start some of the other chemos as well. The good news is that I will be knocked the fuck out with propafol (that shit is the shit!!!!). 

The bad news is that I’m NPO until after my procedure, which is scheduled for 1:15 in the fucking afternoon!! SHIT FUCK!

I’m hungry as shit and I can’t eat, I can’t even drink! Do you know how horrible that is?? The past couple days I haven’t been overly hungry in the morning, but now that I know I can’t eat my scumbag stomach is whining that life is so terribly unfair and I’m over here like NO FUCKIN’ SHIT, BELLY! Story of my life!

Anyway, I’m anxious for this whole process to begin, but I’m feeling good about getting started at the same time. I’m ready to be done with this bullshit and get back to normal… again… and this time for good.

Shit’s fucked, yo. But imma fuck shit up even more!

I can’t believe the docs gave me the choice to not do anything… like, do you fucking know me? I’m stubborn as they come, and I’m a badass bitch that don’t take no shit! I might be tired, but I’m not tired.

I’m angry. I’m stubborn. And right now, I’m STARVING.

That’s a dangerous combination, I don’t think this cancer shit knows what it’s in for.

And so we’re off– once more into the fray.

Rant Regarding Annoyances (Probably pt. 1 of Several)

Ok. So. I rant quite frequently both in my head and aloud about some of the most minute annoyances that just piss me the fuck off!

For instance, there’s this one lady in particular who comes into my room in the morning with a scale and says “Alright, hun, gotta get your weight”… like no, really? You come in here like every damn morning with a FUCKING SCALE…???? And you’re gonna take my weight? Who the hell could have guessed that??? Jesus. Ugh. But as much as it annoys me, I can’t help but feel bad because she’s just doing her job, and she’s not a bad person, nor has she ever wronged me or even remotely been rude. I guess it’s just the way she goes about it that just bugs the living shit out of me. I think it’s impossible for me to just have those sassy remarks and then not feel bad and realize that the people who annoy me aren’t really doing anything wrong, you know? I feel like that’s necessary to say haha, I mean, I can be an asshole with the best of ’em, but really. Being in the hospital for as long as I have been/am, there are just certain people that rub me the wrong way so to speak. By no fault of their own, it’s just kinda the way things go.

That said (I feel better getting that part out of my system so now maybe I can unapologetically plow through more shit that annoys me, hoping you are all aware that yes, I actually do appreciate the work people do and I do realize they’re just doing their job…. and fucking annoying me at the same damn time 😉 ) I will continue with more little things that just drive me absolutely batshit crazy.

The same lady who comes in with the scale and informs me that she needs to take my weight (ok, I know I’m on the pediatric unit, but like I’m fuckin’ 22, I can piece simple things together and figure out why you’re here!) also sometimes comes in in the afternoon/sometime during my transfusions when I get them and says “Alright, hun, gotta get a set of vitals” and again, it’s like you’re the fucking tech, lady, I know what you do and I know why the fuck you’re here! I’m a pretty smart person, even with chemo brain, but good lord! I FUCKING KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE! And then after she records my blood pressure, heart rate and pulse ox she get the thermometer and says “ok hun, gotta take your temp”




Like…. holy shit! I FUCKING KNOW!!!!! I KNOW!!!! Just… don’t say words… please… ugh. UGH! Fucking UGH! Lady… please. Just… shhhh. I really kinda (no, not even kinda, I just straight up want to)  wanna stare at her and say “shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhut the fuck up” as I press my index finger to her lips in an attempt to seal them shut. As my little brother (henceforth referred to as “lil bitch”) would say, “know why you have a mouth? So you can shut it.”

Whew! Gosh this is so therapeutic it’s not even funny! What next, what next? I know there is plenty that just gets me going.

Ok, so, there’s basically a new medical student who does rounds every couple of weeks (the days all bleed together when you live here like I do, so who knows, maybe it’s the same one for a month? Whatever. The point is that they change every so often) and we get a pretty wide mix of characters. One of the ones that we have had is incredibly intelligent and I’m sure has a brilliant and successful career in their future. However (haha we all knew this was coming!) they are a little bit… awkward. Which is fine because, hell, I’m about as awkward as you can get, plus I’m bald so I’m just kinda of a walking ball of unfortunate haha. So anyway, this student will come in and (this is an everyday occurrence) be like “alright, gotta listen to your heart and lungs”…


Oh really? Whoa, total shocker right there! I thought we were gonna play patty cake or braid each other’s hair (wait…). And then, usually after I inspect the inside of my head (that’s long hand for rolling my eyes) at my mom or dad (I would probably not do that where the other person could see, you know, I give zero fucks but I try to still be considerate!) I take like eight deep breaths, and EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. The stethoscope moves to a new location the student will say “deep breath” or “and another” and it’s like… I know how this works, dude. I don’t know if you’ve realized, but I’m kinda a big kid. This isn’t my first rodeo, and, fuck, we’ve been doing the same drill every day for how long now?? And then after the deep breaths they’ll be like “alright, gotta listen to your heart” (no fuck) and then “alright, gotta listen to the belly” (wanna see my surprised face??) I have no idea why that whole thing bothers me so much haha but seriously, it just pisses me off! Not to mention that prior to this inspection the student kind of hangs around the room awkwardly, almost like a leaf about to blow off of a tree branch– trembling, uncomfortable. Trying to make small talk, but it’s like, ok I know why you’re here so let’s just get this shit done and then we can both move on with our days. So usually after an hour of talking (by hour I mean five minutes of brutally rough, choppy conversation) they’ll grab at their stethoscope which they’d been fiddling with almost like an unasked question that wants to just burst out and end the awkward, and begin the whole assessment. By the way, usually I’m alive. I know why they listen to everything, though, but it does get super fucking annoying. Like, I might have done this whole cancer thing twice but I’m 98% confident that I am alive. And if Dr. Katie says she’s alive, she’s fucking alive.

Anyway. When the inspection is over and it’s found that I am in fact still alive (again, yeah, I know what they’re listening for!) they fiddle with their stethoscope again, like it was some type of Harry Potter portkey that could whisk them out of the suffocatingly uncomfortable situation and deposit them elsewhere. So, after another hour of forced conversation with honestly feigned interest, they’ll leave. It’s kind of like they don’t pick up that it’s ok for them to leave. Like they can’t really grasp when a conversation is over and they can move on, which is fine… except for when it’s not according to my standards haha. Sometimes I feel like I need to straight up be like “Alright, cool, thanks, you’re dismissed”. Maybe that would be too subtle, I’d have to try something more like… well, I dunno. Fuck.

It’s typically on my sort of “off” days– my “meh” days– that these things really irk me. But something else that get really fucking old is whenever I get chemo/blood/other stuff… and the nurses always have to ask me for my name and birthday. I know and understand why they have to have me do that, but I’d be lying through my damn teeth if I said it didn’t get obnoxious. It’s like– you fucking know me! You know this is me, and I am the person who is to be receiving this stuff! Just give it to meeeeeeeeeeee! Don’t make me repeat for the bajillionth time my name and birthday. PLEASE. 

I think it’s probably pretty safe to say that during this whole “Cancer” chapter of my life– from September 29th 2015 up until today– I have probably said my name and birthday well over several hundred times. I was contemplating making a shirt sometime and just wearing that. Maybe a tattoo would also work. Boy am I excited to see how many more times I get to say the same information before I can finally conclude the “Cancer Chapter” of my life.

The possibilities are endless.

Wanna make a bet?

Ugly Cries

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 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.