Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have.
My life currently consists of a series of juxtapositions.
Best life. Worst life. Good days. Bad days.
Just kidding. There are no good days. Only good moments....interrupted by bad moments.
Some good moments last longer than others.
Some bad moments last longer than others.
...Like when you find out Bethenny Frankel isn't returning to the Real Housewives of New York City. Like I said, best life. Worst life.
I'm in full on mourning. I'm mourning this more than the upcoming loss of my tits....I'm not kidding.
Yes...I'm sure this will change closer to my chopping block date, but at this moment my world is falling apart.
Bethenny is my queen. RHONY is my temple. AKA I AM SO NOT OKAY.
RHONY without Bethenny is like a PB&J without the J. A PSL without the P. It JUST DOESN'T WORK.
Aside from the whole RHONY situation....I also found out I now have lung cancer. Because it's spread. AGAIN. Ovarian, stomach, pancreas, breasts...lungs.
Ironically, this is the kind of news that makes me want a cigarette. For...OBVIOUS reasons, I'm not going to have one. But still. If there ever was a time to smoke (aside from a really good orgasm)...this is that moment.
(Sorry mom and dad.)
It's like I'm an unsupervised child in a candy store. TAKE IT ALL. Or my organs are at an Oprah show.
Oprah points at my ovaries... "YOU get cancer!"
Oprah points at my stomach..."YOU get cancer!"
Oprah points at my pancreas..."YOU get cancer!"
Oprah points at my tits..."YOU get cancer!"
Oprah points at my lungs..."YOU GET CANCER!"
I mean, I would have settled for a car. Or at the very least a cool waffle iron. But okay, whatever.
And in addition to the whole "cancer has spread" thing...I found out my new rescue puppy that I've had for 10 days has parvo. Apparently its "parvo season."
More like, the universe shitting on me every waking moment of the fucking day season.
...Needless to say, it's been a fucking week.
I need a SkinnyGirl cocktail to deal with all of this. (For those of you living in the dark ages, this is Bethenny Frankel's brand.) However...I've now lost 8 lbs in 3 days. Is there a FattyGirl cocktail I can try?
A cure cancer cocktail?
A HOPEFULLYIDONOTDIEAT28 cocktail?
Because I seriously need a drink of all of these at the moment. Or at the very least, a shot. Or fuck it, a shot of straight tequila.
...But I can't even do that, because of the meds I'm on. FML.
So now, I'm stuck in a body soon to be without tits or ovaries or hair...and a RH world without B. Or LVP.
Currently trying to #BStrong.
(Again, for those of you suffering through life WITHOUT Bravo...I'm being super duper clever. B is the nickname for Bethenny Frankel. #BStrong is the charity that she started to help victims of natural disasters and whatnot http://www.bethenny.com/bstrong/ Aka see what I did there? I'm so punny. And apparently patronizing. Oops. My bad.)
So yeah. This whole be strong thing? It's not working.
I mean...I try to be. To B? HA. Okay...I'm done with that. Promise.
Because these moments where I am strong are interrupted by this voice telling me that I don't even need to worry about Bethenny Frankel leaving RHONY, Emmy Rossum leaving Shameless, the next speeding ticket I'm probably going to get, the next presidential election, the next annoying holiday season with annoying holiday music, because...
Am I going to watch another season of RHONY? BH? OC?
Am I going to make it to the season premiere of Shameless?
Am I even going to make it to vote in 2020?
Am I even going to make it to Christmas where I can resume my regular routine and talk shit on Christmas music?
Although, at least death would be a relief after #puppygate. And no LVP. And no Bethenny.
Yeah yeah yeah...it's just pop culture. Who cares.
So you want to talk about the stuff that matters.
Am I going to be alive long enough to watch my best friends get married? To meet their kids? When will the last conversation with my best friend be? ...With my parents? With my friends? Is THIS the last conversation? Is tomorrow the last conversation?
...This sounds dramatic.
I am dramatic.
But I can 100% guarantee you I do not mean for this to be dramatic.
I'm being realistic. This is my constant internal monologue. Because every time I go to the doctor...something happens.
More tests. More tumors. More cancer. More bullshit.
I had a full on sob fest yesterday because I'm obsessed with Lana Del Rey, and she released her new album yesterday.
...Am I going to be around long enough for another album? Thankfully this album was worth it if it's the last one I hear.
Um...the last season of Game of Thrones WAS NOT.
Semi-random tangent: I was seriously pissed when I thought I might not make it to see the final season of Game of Thrones. Like seriously pissed. ESPECIALLY when they decided to skip a whole fucking year.
To "perfect" the final season.
I saw the final season of Game of Thrones.
Want to talk about being pissed? I STAYED ALIVE FOR THIS BULLSHIT?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. The final season makes me fully understand why Cersei went all...Cersei and blew up the whole fucking temple. Which wasn't in the final season, but you get my drift.
Ugh. If this cancer does kill me I'm going to come back as a fucking ghost and go all poltergeist on EVERYONE that had anything to do with writing the final GOT season. SUCH BULLSHIT.
Saying things like this makes people uncomfortable.
Not the GOT thing. I'm pretty sure everyone knows the last season sucked. I mean the death thing. My death thing.
Trust me, I want to make it. I want to live. I want to make it to my best friends weddings. Baby showers. Coffee and pancakes on Saturday morning. I want to go to Greece. I want to go to another Beyonce concert. I want to go to law school. I want to open my restaurant. I want another PSL. I want another phone call with my best friends.
But at the moment, what I want and what is actually happening are two very different things. And that makes me pissed off and depressed and slightly bi-polar and angry and frustrated.
I'm tired of every good moment being interrupted with pain, or this internal monologue of doom.
I'm tired of going into the doctor's office and getting test results that are worse and worse every fucking time.
I'm tired of being the happiest I've ever been, and the sickest I've ever been.
I'm not giving up.
But, I'm just really, really fucking tired. And really, really fucking scared that all the treatments and upcoming surgeries and all the bull shit won't matter.
...That it won't save my life.
In the words of Lana Del Rey...hope is a dangerous thing for like a woman like me to have.
But. The good news is...I still have it.