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.