I think a lot about what I'm going to do when I finally have the opportunity to get out of the house, back into the world, and to resume my life. Let's assume, for conversation's sake, that I will once again have that chance and that this part of my life is temporary. Before anything else, I think I'm going to take some time to myself and do some of the things I want to do. I mean, I guess you could say that right now I'm getting time off, or a break, from real life, but it doesn't feel that way. And before I begin real life again, I think I'll be entitled to a real break where I can leave the pills and shots, aches and nausea behind.
I'll go where I want to go, and I'll see who I want to see, if they want to see me too, and for a little while I'll ignore the inevitable demands and responsibilities that await my return to normalcy. For a little while, however long it lasts, I'm not going to worry about anything except enjoying myself. And that's something I'll try to take home with me, but I haven't forgotten how difficult it is to live worry-free. The steady schedule of tests and scans to which I'll subscribe for the rest of my life may make carefree living that much more challenging as well.
But I will take the time I'm craving just to be out there in the world again, wide-eyed and impressionable as a young child to beauty and splendor I've never known or seen. I'm not going to set a time to it, or draw up a plan, either. When I can go, I'm just going to go. I'll figure out where, and for how long will be a question I'll answer when I'm out there, but for once I want to abandon boundaries and limitations. I know they'll be anxiously awaiting my return, when I'm ready to be subject to them again.
And that day will come as well, when it's time to come home and start anew. It will be like starting from scratch; I'll have to build my entire life all over again. And I don't feel that young, anymore. Twenty-three could be argued either way, I guess, young or old, but I no longer feel defined by age. Experience has dictated my rate of maturation, though I presume it's never really too late to start over.
I won't have a job, and obviously I can't live at home forever, though my parents might try to convince me otherwise. My friends have jobs and roommates and leases, but I don't feel like I need to force myself to make up ground. The bottom line is that I want to spend my time doing the things that I really want to do. Life is too short to get stuck doing something I don't enjoy. Patience is a virtue, right? Though maybe the most frustrating of them all, it may be the quality in which I am most well-versed. So I'll employ it then as I employ it now, and over time I'll do my best to adorn my life with the people and circumstances that make me happiest. It's the only way that makes sense to me.
All of this is easier said than done, though, isn't it? Otherwise, we'd all be happy-go-lucky and ultimately satisfied with our conditions, but that doesn't seem to be the case for everyone. I'm hoping that my adjusted perspective on life will provide me with the vision and foresight to make decisions that will, in turn, make me happy.
I'm lucky to have good friends and family who care, because even though I'll have plenty of work to do, I'll never be starting with nothing. After all, I really think it's the people with whom we share this life that make it worthwhile in the end. And it's the time we spend with them that proves most memorable.
I call this lost year my "Jordan Year." It began when I was still twenty-two, but I'll spend most of the year at age twenty-three fighting this disease. Hell, who knows, I could be fighting it for the rest of my life, but I just don't want to think that way. But Michael Jordan, whom I idolized growing up, wore number 23. Every basketball fan knows that; it's like knowing that there are fifty states. And I always wondered what I'd be doing when I reached twenty-three. I imagined grandeur, though I never considered such plight.
My Jordan Year will continue to teach me invaluable lessons that I never wanted to learn. It will continue to put things in perspective and change my perspective and rearrange my values. I can't wait to be free again; I'll start running and I won't stop until I get where I'm going, wherever that might be. That's all I know right now. Anything past that is a mystery.
But maybe those are the only answers I need, and maybe that's all I really need to know at all. Something's always going to fill in the blanks. For the first time, I'm starting to feel okay with not having all the answers.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Bean-in-the-Box
In hindsight, I think I may have been a little overexcited for the season's first snow. Sure, it's beautiful to see the outdoors blanketed white, but I certainly underestimated the accompanying cold. Furthermore, I've realized that under normal circumstances, snow is especially refreshing because it provides a wonderfully good reason to stay inside and sink into a sea of covers. I, on the other hand, need no such excuse, as such is my daily existence, so unless I become particularly motivated to go outside and roll around in it, the snow has brought me only marginal satisfaction.
Nevertheless, I refuse to lose appreciation for those few things in which I find beauty. Being isolated, or sheltered, from the outside world makes it easy to forget what's out there. I don't want to forget that good things do exist, and that I may still find them, though I'm so jaded and discouraged by life's injustice.
When I was little, my mom and I used to make up bedtime stories. We thought we were pretty good at it, too. We said that one day, we'd go into business together writing children's books. I would do most of the writing (my mom always thought I was so creative), and she would do the illustrations. My mom is a very talented artist.
The main character in our stories was a boy named Bean-in-the-Box. Naturally, he was about my age, though I can't remember his real name, and he loved boxes. Bean-in-the-Box absolutely adored boxes. Cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, you name it, he wanted them. And by accumulating as many boxes as he could, Bean-in-the-Box was able to construct an enormous fort, or maze, that took up most of his bedroom. It had different levels where he could climb, and nooks in which he could hide, and every night Bean's dad would bring home a brand new box to add to the collection. Sure, Bean had a bed where he slept, I don't think anyone really wants to sleep in a box, but Bean-in-the-Box had a refuge; a secret world to which he could escape and not be bothered by anything or anyone.
Ironically, Bean-in-the-Box had a younger sister the same age as mine, with the same name, though I'm not sure she was allowed access into Bean's box world. What gets me, though, is the foresight Bean-in-the-Box had to know that he would always benefit from having a means of getting away from everything. He knew about trying to escape well before he ever knew the things that I know now. But he wasn't afraid of being alone, I'll give him that, and I have a suspicion he didn't find it hard to express the way he felt.
The trouble I saw with Bean-in-the-Box was that he may have been too complacent with his boxes. Sure, he was just a boy, but he needed to get out and pursue more adventure if he were ever really going to become a popular children's book character.
I keep coming back to this idea of escape; I can't seem to get away from it. I want so badly to step outside again, to try to be happy on my own terms, but I'm afraid I won't be able. I feel stuck, trapped, in this mold, and the longer I stay in it the harder I fear it will be to break free. Especially now, knowing so well how easily things break and how quickly they can disappear.
I know I can't hide in boxes, and I know that faithless can turn to faithful in an instant. I've fallen into something I'll never fully escape, through no fault of my own, but there's no place for fear.
Today, I'm jaded. Maybe tomorrow I'll be surprised.
Nevertheless, I refuse to lose appreciation for those few things in which I find beauty. Being isolated, or sheltered, from the outside world makes it easy to forget what's out there. I don't want to forget that good things do exist, and that I may still find them, though I'm so jaded and discouraged by life's injustice.
When I was little, my mom and I used to make up bedtime stories. We thought we were pretty good at it, too. We said that one day, we'd go into business together writing children's books. I would do most of the writing (my mom always thought I was so creative), and she would do the illustrations. My mom is a very talented artist.
The main character in our stories was a boy named Bean-in-the-Box. Naturally, he was about my age, though I can't remember his real name, and he loved boxes. Bean-in-the-Box absolutely adored boxes. Cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, you name it, he wanted them. And by accumulating as many boxes as he could, Bean-in-the-Box was able to construct an enormous fort, or maze, that took up most of his bedroom. It had different levels where he could climb, and nooks in which he could hide, and every night Bean's dad would bring home a brand new box to add to the collection. Sure, Bean had a bed where he slept, I don't think anyone really wants to sleep in a box, but Bean-in-the-Box had a refuge; a secret world to which he could escape and not be bothered by anything or anyone.
Ironically, Bean-in-the-Box had a younger sister the same age as mine, with the same name, though I'm not sure she was allowed access into Bean's box world. What gets me, though, is the foresight Bean-in-the-Box had to know that he would always benefit from having a means of getting away from everything. He knew about trying to escape well before he ever knew the things that I know now. But he wasn't afraid of being alone, I'll give him that, and I have a suspicion he didn't find it hard to express the way he felt.
The trouble I saw with Bean-in-the-Box was that he may have been too complacent with his boxes. Sure, he was just a boy, but he needed to get out and pursue more adventure if he were ever really going to become a popular children's book character.
I keep coming back to this idea of escape; I can't seem to get away from it. I want so badly to step outside again, to try to be happy on my own terms, but I'm afraid I won't be able. I feel stuck, trapped, in this mold, and the longer I stay in it the harder I fear it will be to break free. Especially now, knowing so well how easily things break and how quickly they can disappear.
I know I can't hide in boxes, and I know that faithless can turn to faithful in an instant. I've fallen into something I'll never fully escape, through no fault of my own, but there's no place for fear.
Today, I'm jaded. Maybe tomorrow I'll be surprised.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Hope and Uncertainty
Today, for the first time, I can count the number of remaining rounds on my one hand. It's still two and a half more months of chemo, then radiation and weeks of vaccines, but I'm still proud of having made it this far.
That said, I still can't help being scared sometimes. It's just the honest truth; sometimes, I'm really scared that chemo will stop working, or radiation or these vaccines that are supposed to keep the tumor from returning just won't work and it will come back stronger than ever. One thing I know is that when I finish all of this treatment, I never ever want to endure it again.
But that's the problem, isn't it? There's always uncertainty, no matter what the situation is. It seems that death might be the only real certainty in life.
It wasn't until I got sick that I really understood how one day is never guaranteed from the next. It's difficult to see each day as a blessing, especially when I feel there's so much on which I've been missing out. It's easy to forget that I am still living, I'm still feeling, and I know I'll never stop dreaming.
But death is an inevitable part of life, and unfortunately, it appears to be prevalent in this cancer world; a world I never asked to be a part of, or to be granted access, but it is a world of uncertainty in which I find myself at any rate.
For months, I tore apart my daily life searching for hope, but found nothing but the same familiar loneliness and those same unanswerable questions.
People find unpredictable ways of entering our worlds, and we can't just close ourselves off to them. At least, I can't. The sad part is that we never know how people will leave our worlds, either, though we can anticipate the impact they will leave on our lives and in our hearts.
I feel lucky to have met some amazing people so far along this journey. Between the nurses, doctors, and everyone involved at Columbia and the National Cancer Institute, it's touching to see how many people truly care. And they have to know from the beginning that they can't save everyone, it's just a part of the job description. I admire their ability to persevere, though I doubt whether or not I'm constructed with the emotional fortitude necessary to do what they do.
And then there are those who enter our lives when we least expect them to, seemingly out of thin air, with the ability to change everything without doing anything at all. Like a moth to a flame, we follow their light, unquestioning, and relying on faith that their guidance will uplift our floundering spirits. Of course, these people may not always live up to the billing, or our expectations for them, but then again sometimes they do. And when they do, it's like waking up to a different world. Possibility and adrenaline overshadow uncertainty, and we're given a glimpse of the way life could be; the way it should be.
Once we've tasted that life, that unbridled joy, even for a moment, it's pretty hard to imagine letting it go again. Why would we? Why would we ever want to or have to? I want to be inspired, and I've been given hope; hope that may carry me through these next few months, and hope that this life can still offer me wonderful things that I've not yet come across. But right now, today, there's a pain inside of me that I can't shed, because I don't want to lose that hope and I don't want to go back to my old world.
It doesn't make sense that we could so easily be so happy, but circumstances so far out of our control, or even our realm of influence, dictate our conditions and dole out our pain. I don't use the word "fair" anymore; it's a useless thought that breeds only frustration.
I feel like I've been given the greatest gift one can receive in this life, and for that I am eternally grateful. But in this cancer world, nobody is safe, and I can't keep anyone safe, even those I wish I could more than anything. I suppose that's a fact of life in any case, though, unconfined by the characteristics of illness and disease.
So I'm going to be brave in the face of unshakable uncertainty, and I would never dream of giving back what I have gained. I'll hold onto it as long as I can, because it's changed me, and I'm not going back to the way I was before.
I can't decide the future, regardless of how content I think I could be with what I've found. But I've learned that things can always change, and things can always get better. And, even in spite of the most unlikely odds, people can get better. Odds are just numbers, while people can accomplish amazing things, and miracles do happen. I've got to hold onto that belief, and somehow I've got to have faith that things can turn around, and that I may still end up with what I want. And I know I'll never lose hope. I couldn't, because she, hope, found me.
That said, I still can't help being scared sometimes. It's just the honest truth; sometimes, I'm really scared that chemo will stop working, or radiation or these vaccines that are supposed to keep the tumor from returning just won't work and it will come back stronger than ever. One thing I know is that when I finish all of this treatment, I never ever want to endure it again.
But that's the problem, isn't it? There's always uncertainty, no matter what the situation is. It seems that death might be the only real certainty in life.
It wasn't until I got sick that I really understood how one day is never guaranteed from the next. It's difficult to see each day as a blessing, especially when I feel there's so much on which I've been missing out. It's easy to forget that I am still living, I'm still feeling, and I know I'll never stop dreaming.
But death is an inevitable part of life, and unfortunately, it appears to be prevalent in this cancer world; a world I never asked to be a part of, or to be granted access, but it is a world of uncertainty in which I find myself at any rate.
For months, I tore apart my daily life searching for hope, but found nothing but the same familiar loneliness and those same unanswerable questions.
People find unpredictable ways of entering our worlds, and we can't just close ourselves off to them. At least, I can't. The sad part is that we never know how people will leave our worlds, either, though we can anticipate the impact they will leave on our lives and in our hearts.
I feel lucky to have met some amazing people so far along this journey. Between the nurses, doctors, and everyone involved at Columbia and the National Cancer Institute, it's touching to see how many people truly care. And they have to know from the beginning that they can't save everyone, it's just a part of the job description. I admire their ability to persevere, though I doubt whether or not I'm constructed with the emotional fortitude necessary to do what they do.
And then there are those who enter our lives when we least expect them to, seemingly out of thin air, with the ability to change everything without doing anything at all. Like a moth to a flame, we follow their light, unquestioning, and relying on faith that their guidance will uplift our floundering spirits. Of course, these people may not always live up to the billing, or our expectations for them, but then again sometimes they do. And when they do, it's like waking up to a different world. Possibility and adrenaline overshadow uncertainty, and we're given a glimpse of the way life could be; the way it should be.
Once we've tasted that life, that unbridled joy, even for a moment, it's pretty hard to imagine letting it go again. Why would we? Why would we ever want to or have to? I want to be inspired, and I've been given hope; hope that may carry me through these next few months, and hope that this life can still offer me wonderful things that I've not yet come across. But right now, today, there's a pain inside of me that I can't shed, because I don't want to lose that hope and I don't want to go back to my old world.
It doesn't make sense that we could so easily be so happy, but circumstances so far out of our control, or even our realm of influence, dictate our conditions and dole out our pain. I don't use the word "fair" anymore; it's a useless thought that breeds only frustration.
I feel like I've been given the greatest gift one can receive in this life, and for that I am eternally grateful. But in this cancer world, nobody is safe, and I can't keep anyone safe, even those I wish I could more than anything. I suppose that's a fact of life in any case, though, unconfined by the characteristics of illness and disease.
So I'm going to be brave in the face of unshakable uncertainty, and I would never dream of giving back what I have gained. I'll hold onto it as long as I can, because it's changed me, and I'm not going back to the way I was before.
I can't decide the future, regardless of how content I think I could be with what I've found. But I've learned that things can always change, and things can always get better. And, even in spite of the most unlikely odds, people can get better. Odds are just numbers, while people can accomplish amazing things, and miracles do happen. I've got to hold onto that belief, and somehow I've got to have faith that things can turn around, and that I may still end up with what I want. And I know I'll never lose hope. I couldn't, because she, hope, found me.
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