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.