Nothing's what it seems; Nothing but debris...

It's funny how in the course of this year's health upheavals, the simple way in which I react to new things has be changed. In short, I take bad news with a silent acceptance, and I take good news with a grain of salt.

It seems sad to think that I now come to expect the bad, and disbelieve the good.

I used to think I was a cynical pessimist, but I've come to find out, I had no clue as to how cynical or pessimistic I could truly be.

Perhaps it's this sense of betrayal I carry with me now. This sense of being cheated somehow, by my body and by extension, my family has given me a bad case of the "once bitten, twice shys."

All I know is when I read the doctor's reports stating all looks "normal" in my CT scan, I can't help but ask myself, "how normal is normal, when my biopsy SHOWS the progressive, permanent damage to my organ?" Obviously the scan is wrong, or the doctor is blind. No way could I be holding ground and not getting sicker.

There has to be more.

I mean, I have no symptoms. Are you going to tell me I have no illness too?

Just because my test results come back as good news, it doesn't mean there isn't the spectre of bad just below the surface.

My body showed no signs of sickness all those months ago, and if it hadn't been for a coincidental finding during a test for an unrelated matter, I would never have been diagnosed. I can't help but to hold onto that fact. That is my proof that my body lies and cannot be trusted.

And when the trust has left, what else is there?

Nothing.

So now I find this lack of faith affecting the good along with the bad.

That's my emotional fall-out.

Debris indeed.

Reach out and touch faith...

They say there are no atheists on death row.

That's because once you accept the fact that your time on planet earth is up, well, you try to grab hold of anything that may bring you comfort and the idea of an afterlife is incredibly comforting. Also you must not discount the fact that with nothing much to lose, giving yourself over to religion and it's organized indoctrination is really not much of a gamble.

So my question is simply this: Why am I finding faith in a higher power so hard to accept?

Why do I continue to question the mere existence of God, heaven, etc?

Sure, I was raised Catholic. I went through the years of study, I've read the bible and the apocrypha, I understand the teachings intellectually. I just have a hard time grasping the so-called "mysteries."

In search of my faith I've read the holy books of various other religions, I've studied them, even tried a few on for size, but still blind faith has eluded me.

I'm sometimes envious of those who's beliefs are so set in stone that they would die for them. It must be awesome to know, just KNOW you are saved, or chosen or whathaveyou.

Heck, I'd settle for knowing that there is someone out there controlling the cosmos. It would make me feel better.

I can't bring myself to pray for myself. Not without at least attempting to believe. It's hard.

I'm pragmatic. I try to hedge my bets whenever I can, at least make an effort in taking chance out of the equation. Why can't I do this now? I'm dying. I should be wearing my rosary thin, just in case.

Perhaps I hold those with faith in such high regard that I feel it would be an insult to them to do so.

Perhaps I'm too skeptical.

Perhaps I haven't reached the point of grasping at straws.

I don't know.

I don't know anything.

I have a secret...

For the past 11 years I have been counting down to my death.

A few of my loved ones know this. No one speaks of it. Most think me down right daffy for clinging onto this fear. A select few worry.

You see, I am convinced I will pass away sometime between mid February 2012 and the beginning of March. I have been convinced for the past 10 years (coming on 11 years soon). From the moment I noticed the pattern, I became sure that there is some sort of 11 year curse in my family that affects the women on my mother's side.

From the moment I turn 3, my mother and I shared an interesting quirk. Every 11 years our ages would be inverse. I turned 3, she turned 30. 11 years later, I turned 14, and she, 41.

But what is most peculiar about this quirk, is that every 11 years there's been a death.

Age 3: my great grandmother
Age14: my grandmother
Age 25: my mother

I will be turning 36 soon. Logic dictates I'm next if the pattern is to continue.

My diagnosis in July only helped to push this fear into the forefront.

Am I crazy? I don't know.

Hopefully I'll be wrong and come April I will have made a fool of myself for unnecessarily worrying.

If not, let this blog entry be my testament, that I knew it was coming and though scared beyond all that is and ever was, I am standing tall and not giving up.

I'm dying... But I'm not dead yet.

Occupy this! I am the 1%...

No, I am not among the wealthiest 1% of Americans.

What I am is the legendary statistical 1% that exists in all of life's caveats.

You know... "This treatment is 99% effective" or "There's only a 1 in a million chance of possible side effects." Say hello to the 1 in a million to experience the side effect, or the 1% which will not react effectively to said treatment.

The whole life I have been the 1%. Sometimes it has worked in my favor, such as achieving a high scores in school. However, for the most part it has been more of a burden than a blessing.

When I visit my doctor and ask for the worse case scenario, I am told I should be less pessimistic. I am told I should be positive and think good thoughts and not worry about that small 1% chance of something going off script.

Excuse me.

I guess you would know my track record better than me, seeing as though you've known me for 6 months and can't seem to remember my name without looking in my chart. I guess my 35 years of living as the human exception to the rule does not qualify me to plan ahead for what can most certainly occur TO ME.

I apologize for my arrogance, in wanting to be informed of ALL eventualities.

The pathetic thing is, even though I know without a shadow of doubt that I will be the statistical variance, I still maintain hope that this one time, just once, that I will beat the odds.

I have hope.

I am positive.

I will fight.

So fuck you Dr. Know-Nothing. Fuck you in the ass.

Finally seeing the forest for the trees...

It strikes me how easy it is to go through life with blinders on. I know I spent much of my young adulthood like that. Heck, I believe I spent much of my teenage years with the same single minded, see only what is in front of me at the moment mindset.

It's so easy to get caught up in life's little dramas and inconveniences that you forget to breathe. I survived so long holding my breath that when I finally took one, I went into a metaphorical shock.

I'm breathing now.

I running without my blinders, and I'm looking around.

I'm concentrating on what I have instead of what I do not.

And I'm thankful.

I'm alive.

I'm asymptomatic.

I have friends and family who support me when I cannot stand on my own.

I'm hanging on by a thread, but that is one strong thread which I trust won't let me down.

I'm blessed.

And this year when I sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, I won't have to search far for something to be grateful for.

Knock...knock...knocking on heaven's door...

I am beyond exhausted.

After a late night visit to my local emergency room with a fever that spiked as high as 103, I was informed that somehow, somewhere my body had picked up a bacteria infection.

Fun fact about my medical condition, bacteria infections are very hard to fight off.

Then after being on 2 different antibiotics, I'm informed that the cultures they took, well, they show this strain is resistant to both antibiotics and I would need to discontinue both and start a third.

5 days I was on these other antibiotics. 5 days I thought I was getting better, but in fact I was getting worse. My body could feel it. My fatigue was soul crushing. I couldn't stay awake, I couldn't sleep. Every part of my body that could possibly hurt did. I couldn't eat, I couldn't throw up... there was absolutely no relief.

I had never seriously thought of taking my own life.

I did this past week.

Repeatedly.

I'm on day 2 of the new antibiotic. It's too early to say if it's working or not, but my cloudiness and dizziness is  at the lowest it has been this week, so I suppose that's a good sign.

I can't wait for this fatigue to lift.

I've got things to do, and places to be, or something along those lines.

But this "minor" illness I've experienced this week has opened my eyes a bit. If as my disease progresses, this is what I have to look forward to, well, I sure as hell can't blame the patients of Dr Kevorkian for requesting a way out.

That's not to say that I would do that. It's just that, I do understand the mentality behind it.

I'm too much of a coward to go out like that anyway.

I don't want to go to hell, even if my actions on earth will lead me there.

I'm going on my own merits.

Today was a bad day...

It doesn't happen as often as it used to, in the before time.

Generally speaking I have good days. I feel good, I have no pain, I have energy, and simply I feel nigh invulnerable.

Today was not one of those days.

I'm achy, I'm cranky, I'm tired, I'm cold, and quite frankly I'm not happy about it.

I'm on a catch-all antibiotic, since my immune system is not up to par, and once again my platelets are low. Of course the side effects of the antibiotic are worse than the symptoms.

I can deal with pain. I can deal with the chills. It's the fatigue that "tires" me out.

See what I did there? Corny jokes may be a side effect too. I'll have to look it up.

I don't understand how I went from feeling like a rockstar (I ran a 5k on Sunday. My first... And one of my bucket list entries.) to feeling like a lump of mashed potatoes. The chunky/watery type no one likes.

I still got myself out the door this morning for my 2.2 mile run, and I almost felt normal during it. Once I got home and into bed, my illness came back with a pimpslap Dolemite would applaud.

I hate days like this.

They make me face the awful truth that no matter how much positivity I surround myself with, no matter how much I accomplish, that in the end, none of it matters.

I'm dying.

And I don't want to die just yet.

Shawshanking from my life...

Sometimes all I really want is an escape hatch.

I want to tear a poster of Farrah Fawcett from the wall of my life and crawl through a hole into another's existence.

I recently left everything behind and took a solo pilgrimage in an effort to find that elusive inner peace. My efforts were seemingly not enough, as it continues remain elusive.

While time away from my responsibilities, medical drama, and everyday stress was pleasant, there was no permanent relief.

I don't honestly believe I expected a permanent change or even a long lasting one. But I would be remiss to say that somewhere in my heart the hope did not exist.

It felt as though the moment my plane touched down the weight that had been lifted from shoulders at the onset of my journey came crashing right down on me with more than just a vengeance. As happy as I was to be home, I couldn't help but feel crushed once I realized it was time to set the wheels back in motion.

Lab work.

CT scan.

Doctor's appointment.

This is my present.

There is no past; there is no future. There's only now.

And quite frankly, "now" sucks a little bit.

It's the little things...

Most days I don't think about my illness.

I feel great. I have energy. I feel no pain. Even my headaches have been mild to nonexistent.

I feel so good in fact, that I tend to forget I'm terminal. It's almost as though I am healthy.

Then out of nowhere something will pop up and shatter this illusionary world I inhabit.

For example, I will lean my arm on the counter for a minute too long, and a bruise will appear. No trauma necessary. All I have to do is lean to be reminded that my platelet count is low.

Today I have to get a flu shot due to my immune system being compromised. That's what my doctor tells me. Again, another reminder that regardless of how good I feel, I am not good at all.

The little things slowly chip away at my pleasant mood, and at times, my confidence.

I give myself these pep talks. I try to convince myself that I am in fact NOT dying OF this disease, but that I am living WITH this condition. I tell myself the glass is half full, and not mostly empty. I tell myself I can beat this because I'm feeling great, and I am asymptomatic.

But when a bruise appears out of seemingly nowhere, or when I have to swallow my principles and get a flu shot, or when I receive a phone call from the transplant center to confirm my appointment... it's hard to believe my own propaganda.

These tiny, unrelated pockets of circumstances chill me. They devastate me. They break down my emotional defenses and leave me clutching my Teddy bear like a scared 3 year old.

And then the moment passes, and I regain control and tell myself to live in THIS moment and not to worry about the next.

It works, too.

Until the next bruise, the next action that goes against my personality, or the next appointment.

Rinse and repeat.

The year of "Yes"...

I have proclaimed this as my year of "Yes!"

What this means is very much what it sounds like. This is my year of saying "yes" to things I normally would have said "no" to, ignored, or simply blown off due to fear, laziness or apathy.

I've wasted enough of my life avoiding things because they seemed impossible at the time, which in reality were more possible than I gave them credit for.

This stems from my never-ending obsession with my lackluster bucket list. As I try to come up with extraordinary tasks, I find myself glossing over more mundane things, for the sole reason of being mundane. While these things may not have the ritz and glamour to make onto my bucket list, they really shouldn't be discounted.

So with that in mind, I'm done being lazy or scared. Big or small, it's time to say "Yes."

What do I have to lose?

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

"Turn to face the strain." (Yes, I know it's "Strange"-work with me here.)

David Bowie might as well have been singing about me.

It's funny how different people handle the strain and stress of their lives. I've seen folks completely break down and give up, and I've seen tremendous courage rise up from depths of despair I would have thought impossible.

Unfortunately, the Jeff Conway's greatly outnumber the Christopher Reeve's.

In the silence of the night, I've often wondered which I would be if dealt a hand of physical adversity. I never quite answered my musings, since it seemed futile to play such a morbid "what if" game. I mean, what was the point? I was immortal after all.

Funny how things change.

So now's the time to finally answer my silent, unspoken question... Am I a quitter or am I a fighter?

All my life I've leaned towards the path of least resistance but have on occasion grabbed life by the balls and jumped out of my comfort zone. The one time I did go all out, flew by the skin of my teeth and took the road less travelled, I was unhappy with the result. I came to the conclusion that there is obviously a reason WHY the road was less travelled... And that I should have stayed on the main thoroughfare. Since then, least resistance has been my standard modus operandi, so much so that most times I offer less than least resistance. I offer none, and stand perfectly still.

Given this self knowledge, I would think quitting would be right in tune with my usual song and dance. This is why I am so surprised to see the small changes happening in me. Everyday I notice slight differences in how I handle things.

For lack of a better term, or lack of a better cliche, I have been in a decade long rut... While in this rut, I became this lame, timid, shell of my former self. I became the quitter who was afraid to take a risk and, well, LIVE.

I'm slowly noticing that quitter disappear. I don't know if it's being replaced by a fighter just yet, but I do feel it's being replaced by ME. The me I was before. The me that was immortal... with one big caveat: immortality with maturity.

I don't laugh in the face of fear as I did when I was young, but I'm no longer cringing and hiding from it. I'm facing it head-on, acknowledging it, respecting it... Then grabbing it by the balls!

It only took dying to learn how to live again.

"Time may change me... But I can't trace time."

The thing about fear is...

I've pretty much lived my whole life in one form of fear or another. I used to tell myself that the fear was just my common sense keeping me from making stupid mistakes. Now I'm not so sure.

Yes, I will readily admit I was a bit of a risk taker as a youth. I was immortal, after all.

But that's not the kind of fear I'm talking about now. I'm acknowledging for possibly the first time ever, an intangible fear within myself that has kept me for the better part of my life, standing still.

I'm afraid of trying.

I always have been.

I'm far less afraid of failing than I am of actually trying. How weird is that?

Coming now to this point in my life where I am becoming introspective, or should I say retrospective (since I'm looking internally to the past) I am coming to terms with the simple fact that, I cannot afford to maintain this ridiculous fear.

This all comes down to my bucket list.

I've been adding things to my list, that I would feel I lost out on, if I did not experience them before dying, while still being within the realm of possibility. Sure, I'd like to experience space flight, but without Lotto-style funding, that is not within my scope.

I've deciding to also add things that I have not experienced due to fear of trying.

Because quite frankly, I'm tired of living in fear.

If I am going to die, I want to die without fear.

Ducks! Get in a row...

Although I have been lectured ad nauseam regarding my lack of a positive attitude, I continue to forge ahead with my most morbid pursuits regarding my health. Seriously, how positive do people expect me to be given my condition?

I'm sorry that I have yet to achieve that most noble plateau of sunshine and lollipops people expect to see in the face of someone with a defined expiration date. I'm not putting on a brave face and looking into infinity with a reserved Mona Lisa smile. I'm not happy about dying.

But I refused to deny it as well.

I know this to be a fact. Much like the old cliche about the certainty of taxes.

Granted, I may be rescued at the last minute and survive the final reel, but even that would be a short reprieve. All sagas come to an end. Some just end sooner than expected, and leave you wanting more.

My point, and I do assure you kind reader, that I do have one, is that whether my flame is snuffed out tomorrow or 20 years from now, I need to set certain things in motion now. I need to be prepared.

While I busy myself constructing lists of fun things to experience before my final curtain call, I am also laying the foundations for things of a rather pragmatical nature as well.

I'm planning my funeral.

Morbid much?

Not necessarily.

I've always had a quirky sense of humor to say the least. To say the most, one may go so far as to describe my humor as inappropriately offensive. I'd split the difference and just say I'm a twisted child.

So with that in mind, I have decided on an equally disturbing send off for myself. I want my funeral to be enjoyable. They say you can't have a "funeral" if you omit the "fun." Okay, that's a lie. They don't say that; just I do.

I want my funeral to be a pajama-jama! No one is to wear black. If someone wears black I will come back and haunt them everytime they use the restroom. And I promise I WILL stare.

Attire should be appropriate pajamas. I myself choose to be dressed in pajamas should an open casket be warranted.

Forget flowers too. Flowers are sad. There is no room for sadness at Anna's Pajama-jama Funeral Extravaganza! Instead, attendees will be provided with crayons and paper in order to draw kindergarten caliber illustrations and well wishes (or bad wishes) that will the be hung on the wall for all to enjoy and laugh at.

Everyone will be encouraged to share embarrassing stories about me, and make fun of me. I figure it's the least I can do. I've been dishing it for so long, I might as well take it... Lying down! Ha!

I don't want this to be a depressing occasion. I'm depressed enough going into this, and I'm sure I've depressed my loved ones enough with my moodiness. I just want to throw one last party.

I want the last memory I leave behind to be that I made my friends and family wear pajamas to a funeral and draw with crayons.

I don't want my life to be mourned.

I want my goofiness to be celebrated.

Trust and the senses...

All my life I've been told that I should trust my senses. I've always taken that to mean my mystical sixth sense that apparently all women are supposed to have. In other words, I've understood the phrase to imply an unseen force that is unmistakable and unshakable.

Since I happen to lack that particular sense, intuition, or what-have-you, I've made it a practice to trust my tangible senses. If I can see it, taste it, hear it and physically feel it, I can trust it to be the truth, right?

That's what I thought before I received the news that my body was breaking down.

I feel great, physically.

I have the energy and stamina only rivaled by my 16 year old self.

I'm in the best cardiovascular shape than I have been in recent years, and my muscle tone is getting there. Heck, I was even talked into a triathlon for next year by a coworker.

But regardless of feeling fabulous, my tests came back less than.

This goes to show that I was once again proven wrong in my theories of life. My senses cannot be trusted. They lied.

Maybe I should have listened to that little voice in the back of my head that always reminds me of my fears and doubts. Perhaps that little voice IS this ethereal sixth sense I was so convinced I did not possess. I don't know.

I do know my body has betrayed me, both physically and evidently perceptually .

But the upside?

I may be dying, but I still feel great.

Sympathy is next to apathy...

I've always prided myself on being a rather sympathetic person. I'd like to think I'm a good listener, and that I am genuine in my empathy.

In short, I've never had to fake caring about others. I just generally do.

However, lately I've found myself generally NOT caring. It's a bit troubling.

I wonder if it's because I feel my own pain so strongly for the first time, that I cannot muster so much as a simple smile of understanding to another's pain.

It's hard to look into someone's eyes and show genuine concern over some end of the world crisis they may be experiencing, when all I can see is a trivial affair that does not affect me.

How can I feel sympathy for someone that broke their iPhone, or missed out on a great sale, or is having problems with a significant other, when I'm worried about my own survival?

I know I'm being jerk.

I just can't help it.

I guess I'll have to fake it, 'til I make it... back to myself.

Time keeps on slipping...

I remember as a child, how time seemed to stand still. During summer vacation, the days were longer, the weeks spread out and the months were endless. During the school year, it felt as though time creeped by at an equally slow pace.

What I wouldn't give for to feel that once more.

It seems like my days rush by me, and before I know it I've wasted another month of my life idling.

I bury myself in work and in mundane tasks at home as a method of avoidance. It's the old childhood game of pulling the covers over your head when fearing the monster in your closet. If I can't see them, they can't see me.

If I don't think about dying, maybe I won't die.

It's not denial. I don't pretend I'm fine.

It's avoidance. I purposely choose to avoid the subject in hopes of making it through one more day without breaking down.

But while I sit here trying to just "make it through one more day" I realize I'm actually wasting said day.

I don't know how many more I have left. 300? 600? 900?

I really shouldn't blow through my time without at least trying to rage against the dying of the light, or some similar trite phrase.

All I know is that today I sit here, abled body not doing a damned thing, but I know tomorrow I may not be so lucky, and I will be furious at myself for my laziness for letting time slip by.

I need some motivation to get me going.

Obviously the whole being terminal thing isn't quite motivation enough.

Progress in list making...

Although not in the forefront of my recent thoughts, I have not quite given up on accumulating deeds for my so-called bucket list.

Skydiving is still number one, with a bullet.

But since I last actively pondered possible additions to my list, a few more activities have come to mind.

I would like to return to my old stomping grounds in old New York. I would like to revisit the places of youth, as a farewell tour of sorts. I have many wonderful memories of my life there, and oddly enough, those particular memories have not been sullied over the expanse of time.

That officially makes my list at number two, but not in priority. It's only number two, for sake of arriving in my consciousness after skydiving in terms of things I want to do before I run out of time.

1. Jump out of a plane
2. Return to NYC

It looks like I have a list forming now.

Maybe I should make a sticky link?

Hope springs eternal or something like that...

Today has been both frustrating and hopeful.

I don't quite understand it.

Beyond the usual pomp and circumstance that goes along with my many physician visits, today's visit was unnecessarily cumbersome. Perhaps it was my state of mind on the way there, or it may have been the mental pep talk in the parking lot before walking into the office. Whichever caused it, I walked in ready to battle this heartless bastard I call my caregiver.

I walked in armed with information at the ready, blind siding him with my knowledge. For once I was on the offensive pushing him against the wall, cornering him, forcing his hand to provide more than just the usual verbiage.

Yet he still threw me.

The bastard still caught me, with a suggestion mascarading as an accusation. I was dumbfounded into silence.

I left feeling defeated and ashamed, but something happened on the drive home... Something I cannot explain, nor even properly put into words.

I just felt different.

At some point before I turned off the highway, I felt something that's been missing these last few weeks.

I felt hope.

Nothing happened to bring this feeling on. If anything I should have felt worse, having gone several rounds with the doctor regarding treatment and referrals... Yet for the first time since this crazy train left the station, I don't feel like I'm going off the tracks. Thanks Ozzy.

I don't know if this feeling is the new status quo, or if it's a passing thing. I don't know if it'll still be there tomorrow.

All I know is that today I have hope in my heart that I will not fade from memory as quickly as I've been lead to believe.

Today, I feel alive.

Life goes on without you in its wake...

It's hard to accept sometimes that although my life, for all intents and purposes has come to a halt, while I await test results, or await my next doctor's appointment, the world continues to spin on.

There's a strange feeling in this stillness; this limbo.

It's like I'm suspended between breaths, unable to move forward, unable to even voice my worries.

And yet, I'm the only one feeling this.

Everywhere I go, every one I see is living their life. They continue on walking in circles, going through the maze, unaware of the fact that I am standing still.

Even my doctor.

The doctor I've come to rely on, only because he was the one that took the call when this whole thing began...

This doctor's life goes on.

I live for each new breath I receive when I see him, since each appointment brings with it new results, and possible new avenues to explore in battling this illness... and yet, he cancels.

He cancels my appointment because his life is ongoing. His schedule needs to change to meet the demands of his life. He can't stand still.

I have no choice but to stand still. I stand still because he took away my bridge. I cannot cross without it.

I pace in place. I hold my breath. I'm in limbo.

My doctor's living.

I'm slowly dying.

Tripping down memory lane...

Every now and then I'll have a flashback of a simpler time. A time when my future seemed so far away, and all the cares of adulthood were but scary stories told by the elders in order to straighten out misguided youths.

In those days I was invincible.

There were no consequences to any action I could even dream of having.

I could eat anything, drink anything, heck, I could pretty much do anything... I was magnificent in my ignorance.

Today I am less.

Today what I lack in magnificence, I make up for by my equal lack of ignorance. I know too much.

Knowing too much clouds my memories.

I cannot wax poetic about my misspent youth, marveling at my feats of derring- do, laughing at my idiocy without the ever present spectre of "what if" lurking in the shadows.

What if I had known where I would be 15 years down the line? Would I have changed my actions? Would that have made a difference?

I know I cannot dwell on the past. It does me no good. It's just a shame I tend to remember it all so vividly.

15 years.

15 years ago I was 20 years old, arrogant in my zest for life.

Less than month ago, I was 35 years old, humbled by my body's betrayal.

And now I no longer have my memories to look to for comfort.

All I have is the shame of a wasted life.

Treading water in the sea of want...

I find myself in a cliched holding pattern.

I don't think I like it much.

It seems like there's a lot of activity, and then it all stops, and the waiting begins.

Wait for your doctor's appointment;
Wait for test results;
Wait for scheduling of said appointments or tests;
Wait for my life to either end or begin anew.

I'm getting tired of waiting.

I understand the why's and whatfor's of this waiting game, however my patience for it is starting to wear quite thin, I assure you.

I just wish I could blink my eyes and restructure my universe in such a way that this sword of Damocles would no long hang above me. But then again, I would be surprised if I was the only person in this particular dingy that didn't harbor such thoughts whether or not Barbara Eden was involved.

But for now all I can do is wait and hope the sword dangling over my head does not fall. Because if it does fall, I'm afraid I won't be fast enough to get out of the way.

I want to be proactive, and actually do something. I want to take up arms and battle this illness, this condition, on a level battlefield. I want to feel like I have some semblance of control in what shall be my fate.

I want a lot of things.

Most of all, I want to be well.

It's time for a bucket list...

I've always found the custom of making out one's bucket list to be a rather morbid activity. To actually sit down and write a list of things you'd want to have done before dying is a bit much for me.

Well, at least it was, before it was my turn to face my own mortality.

That should teach me to judge before walking a mile in shoes that belong to someone else.

So for the past week I have been obsessing with my own list of daring pre-death feats. It has not gone as well, nor as fast as I had hoped.

Right now I've only got one thing on my list:

Jumping out of a plane.

That's the only thing I deem as being a worthy bucket list entry that is feasible. Everything else seems meager, and quite frankly I wouldn't feel like I would be losing out if I met my maker not having done them.

Jumping out of a plane on the other hand is the closest thing I could ever get to flying like a superhero, and THAT, I would like to experience.

But one item does not a list make.

I'll need to work on it a little more, and do some soul searching and various other cliches that refer to heavy duty thinking.

Maybe I need help after all...

More and more I have been finding it hard to concentrate on the trivial matters of life, such as my job, driving and even sleeping.

Moments of silent reflection tend to lead to moments of abject crying and an overwhelming sense of panic, sadness, and hopelessness.

Perhaps I am in need of a professional's help.

Perhaps, nothing. I AM in need of help.

Grief counseling may do me some good. I need to snap out of this funk if I am to make the most of what is left of my time on the mortal plane.

It's time to forgo my pride, and just go with it and admit to another human being that for the first time in my life I'm scared to the point of paralysis. That's not an easy thing to do.

Dying is supposed to be easy. Leave it to me to make it complicated.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda...

It's been a couple of days since I first received the news that I was hoping I'd never get, yet knew was to come. I cannot say I've come to accept the reality totally, but I am in no way in any form of denial.

The shock of the moment is merely wearing off, and I'm awakening to the somber truth of the matter: I'm dying.

I knew intellectually this was to happen at some point, as I knew this next phase was to come as well... The blame phase.

I find myself today almost totally obsessed with finding the fork in the road in my life where I took the wrong turn which lead to the path.

What did I do wrong?

Could this fate have been avoided? Should I have done or possibly NOT done something in particular? Would have anything made a difference?

Maybe if I had not waited so long before seeking medical attention for a seemingly unrelated event, this outcome could have been different.

Perhaps if I had been stronger in my convictions regarding my actions in my youth, I would not be here today.

Or was it really just genetics?

It's game I cannot hope to win, this so called blame game. Yet, I can't help but invest myself in it when given a moment's silence.

I really don't want to die blaming myself, and harboring ill will towards myself.

Spreading the news...

As bad as receiving the news that your life is coming to an abrupt end, I have found that sharing said news is much worse.

Having to actually articulate the phrase, "I've been given 5 years, top" is awful no matter how you try sugar coating it.

Plus, there's always that awkward start of the conversation:

Hi, so and so, how's it going?

Not bad, Anna. How are things with you?

Things could be better.

Really? What's wrong?

Well, see, I have incurable disease, it's pretty advanced, and I'll be dead in 5 years, give or take. How are the kids?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now, imagine having to have the same conversation multiple times.

You'd think it would get easier.

It doesn't.

Sure the words seem to come out with less and less emotion each time, but that's only because you're slowly running out of tears and patience. Patience, because there's only so much pity one person can handle, unless you also suffer from Munchausen. Sadly, I do not. If I did, I would be living the dream instead of this nightmare.

I swear, if I hear one more person say, "I'm so sorry." I think I'll scream, then punch them in the throat.

So why not wait and tell people until later, until you've had time to live with your mortality and acclimate to the new status quo? Honestly? Because misery loves company.

Sharing the pain immediately is akin to ripping the bandaid off quickly. Having to live with this knowledge alone is a burden, and quite frankly that's just too much for me right now. Better to let folks know right away, and suffer through the pain of saying the words, than to live with the pain alone.

It's my hope that as time goes on, the pain of saying the words lessens to a numbing sensation. We'll see.

The art of dealing...

It's not often one is faced with their own mortality.

It's rather an interesting thing.

You think to yourself, "Well, if I knew for certain I was going to die in X amount of days, weeks, months or years, I would react like so." But when the time comes you find your reaction to be, well, different for lack of a better term.

The Kübler-Ross model if you will, is rather accurate in my experience:

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression 
5. Acceptance

Although, I find that it is not an easy step by step linear process.

It's more of a cycle. 

A rinse and repeat type of cycle.

Denial never showed up to the party. There was no need. He was never invited, he never showed.

Anger shows up in small spurts, gets tired and goes home only to return with a fervor the next night.

Bargaining make an occasional appearance but is usually pushed out of the buffet line by Depression. 

Depression likes to hang around quite a bit, and usually shares his woes with Anger.

Acceptance hangs out on the porch and sticks his head into the party every so often as though to tease those in attendance that he may indeed commit to the party. But as much as he wants to, he never seems to make it past the front porch.

And then the next night, it begins again.

And again.

And again.

I often thought when faced with my own mortality I would do something spectacular, something awe inspiring, something, I don't know... loud.

And yet, as I sit here facing it with open eyes, all I want to do is sleep.

I do need my rest after all, I have guests coming over later tonight. 

There's going to be a party.

Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance and I will be celebrating my short life, and laughing at Denial.

So the doctor said..

Yesterday I received the news that I have a terminal illness.

It's not an illness without hope I'm told.

There is thing that can be done. However the one thing that can be done might as well be a million in one shot.

A transplant.

However to qualify for a transplant I must be symptomatic.

I'm not.

I actually feel great. Better than great, actually. I feel better than I have in years.

However, medical results say otherwise. They say my body is sick. They say I'm dying. They say I'm looking at 3 to 5 years, maybe... unless I receive a transplant.

So I sit here pondering my life.

I'm 35 years old, and I have been told in no uncertain terms, I will not make to to Social Security age.

What do I do now?

I guess I have to live until I can't anymore.

What else can I do?