"Well I looked my demons in the eyes,
laid bare my chest, said 'Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times,
I must admit you kind of bore me.'" Ray LaMontagne
We're on to biopsy round 3. Pre-surgical testing this week, getting chopped up next week.
More scar tissue to dance around my purposely deflated(and then re-inflated) lungs,
more tissue for pathologists to play with under microscopes and various stains.
Make a pretty picture, please. And a prettier diagnosis. Then Chemo(again!) then a bone
marrow transplant(I may be donating to myself if all goes well). A series of 3 day hospital stays
culminating in a 3 week. The remnants of athlete within scream at the thought. Somehow amidst
this I will act as a student and (student) leader, and maybe a social creature as well. (No promises
on the last one though.) I don't know why I'm still in this lazy, anti-social mindset. I don't know
why I don't seek the company of others as avidly as I did in the past. I don't know why my room
has become as much of a source of comfort as it has a black hole of productive activity.
The wrong weather can easily deter me from ever leaving my house. No commitment,
no matter how important or enjoyable, can motivate my movement.
In these few weeks leading up to my next round, I'm allowed to drink.
I don't want to drink.
How cruel. A 21st birthday to be spent spurning bars and their frequenters.
In what nightmare did this scenario emerge?
The worst of it is, it's starting to bother me less and less. Though not accepting
this new version of myself hasn't compelled me to be anymore active than it
has made me anxious, I can't help but think retaining that POV(i.e. the one
that condemns my fatigue for laziness) is essential in retaining some aspect
of the former "me".
An identity crisis, how post-adolescent of me. Right on schedule.
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