The Appreciation Game

I have chosen to scrap what I originally was going to write. 

It was about spring and rebirth. I was going to tie it in to the good news about my tumor and my recovery. It was about appreciating the extension of my life which I have most likely gotten. 

But I killed it dead. 

Why, in the face of all of this good news, am I killing positivity? Because sometimes “good news” doesn’t feel like it. It’s just a reminder that it’s still good news about the thing that’s still likely to kill you. 

A delayed death sentence is still a death sentence. 

Jess and I are in Las Vegas for a long weekend, visiting her friend who lives here. We’ve eaten out at some truly wonderful restaurants. For free because Jess’s friend’s boyfriend was comped meals because of his job. I had a delightful fancy fried chicken one night, and steak the next. We went to the Atomic Museum. And MeowWolf. And gambled with money that Jess’s dad gave us so we couldn’t feel guilty about losing our own. It’s a great time. But like Charlie Brown at Christmas time, I’m still depressed. 

I should be appreciative of the good news. Oh, did I forget to tell you? I had a CT scan nine days ago, and the interventional radiologist told us that they were unable to see any living cancer tissue. That doesn’t mean it’s not there, because it could be hiding behind inflammation. That is some real “praise Jesus” miraculous shit. The radiologist said that I had experienced the best possible outcome. So again, Charlie Brown, why are you upset? 

Because in my mind, I’m not Charlie Brown. I’m Indiana Jones. I’m “Even Steven.” For years, the story that I told myself was that if I got into a scrape, I’ll likely get out of it. If I lost a dollar, I’d get one to replace it. If I was sick, I’ll recover and feel just fine. I’m going to be FINE. Right? 

No. I’m not going to be fine.  I mean. I will be, until I’m not. I’m healthy now. Mostly. My brain is not. Being further away from death has ironically fucked my brain up way more than being blissfully unaware, but completely freaked out on a visceral level of how close to death I have been at least twice over the past eight months. Being healthier but never being able to fully lick the disease is, perhaps, more pernicious. I’ll never be “normal” again. Unless I get an unlikely liver transplant, and that’s a long-shot, and even then, that’s not particularly normal, now, is it? 

I should appreciate life. So many people have lost theirs. Or they’re dealing with crippling pain or disability. While I get to experience the life-extending miracle. 

“Borrowing trouble” is another way of saying “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” I want decades, and I’ll be lucky to get years. For a while it was day-to-day. Even writing “years” is a hard thing to do. Because I kind of don’t believe it. Or believe I deserve it. Or that it’s possible. I’ve been living with prospective death long enough that I kind of search for it. 

But I do not crave it or want it. Rather, I expect it because maybe it’s a tangible marker of perceived unworthiness. A validation of my belief that I’m not good enough. Why am I allowed to live for possibly years more while others, who I perceive to be somehow better than myself, get months… days…? How fucked up is that? Why are you looking a gift horse in the mouth? What’s the matter with you? 

How can I escape my mind and be truly happy, despite the appeal to the court which buys time, but doesn’t reverse the sentence? I don’t know if it’s possible to banish this thing either from my body or my mind. It’s always going to be with me, and I just have to learn how to live with it.

Current medical technology says that there will be no call from the governor. That one day, I will walk that last mile. But do I really have to live in a cell while I wait for my time? 

I want to learn how to live again, even if it’s not normal. I need to know how to appreciate my beautiful, messed up, abnormal, but still valid, life. 

I need to live before I die, instead of dying while I’m living.  

And I’m making an effort to do just that.