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  • Kathryn Wright

I'm Dying.

Everyone always says have hope when you have cancer.


No shit, Sheila....that's the plan. It's not like i actually WANT to die.


Ironically, my phone just auto-corrected that sentence to "no hair Sheila."


I'm not kidding. Like I'm literally not kidding...I'm currently writing this on my phone, hence the auto-correct. SORRY, JANET. SORRY I BOUGHT TOO MUCH MILLENNIAL AVOCADO TOAST AND CAN'T AFFORD TO FIX MY COMPUTER.


So here's a few things.


First of all, APPLE, if I want to say the word SHIT, I would like the freedom to do so without being autocorrected. I already have a walking, talking autocorrect in my life. AKA my mother.


I do admire her tenacity though. She thinks I will change. I won't.


***This is the part where I am going to post a disclaimer (hi mom and dad) that I was in no way shape or form raised to curse like a sailor when I talk. This is no way shape or form a reflection of their parenting. I simply like to be emphatic when I speak.***


Love you.


Anyways. Secondly, seeing as how I have a very rapidly escalating no hair situation going on here, I find this to be very insulting.


And ironic. 100% fully convinced at this point the universe is laughing at me.


"Oh my gosh, stop complaining about everything. Don't be one of those people." Um...take a seat. This is my life and I can complain about what I want. I'm still complaining about the nachos they left out of my taco bell order many moons ago (more on that later.) I think I'm allowed to complain about hair loss and one of the biggest tech companies in the world making fun of me for it.


Also, stop reading if my complaining is annoying you.


Also, this isn't an airport. You don't have to announce your departure. BYE FELICIA. (100% ashamed that yes, that is one of my favorite expressions of all time and I am going to attempt to use it as much as possible. What can I say. I am who I am.)


(Me, talking to my hair in the mirror..."BYE FELICIA")


But yes. I'm insulted. I'm fucking insulted.


Insulted by my own body.


Insulted by my body that turned on me.


So yes, I'm fucking insulted.


Insulted by hair loss and needles and biopsy's.


Insulted by big pharma and insurance companies and doctors that didn't listen to me.


Insulted by chemotherapy and medical procedures.


Insulted by radiation and hospital visits and doctor appointments that dictate my fucking life.


Insulted by people that try and dictate my fucking life because they think they know what's best for me.


And last but not least, insulted by Taco Bell! I mean, THEY FORGOT MY NACHOS. That's literally all I wanted. When it's 2:30 am and you're drunk in the back of an Uber with your best friend and all you want is nachos and are literally paying surge pricing and completely creeped out by your driver and panicking because you think you lost your phone but you DIDN'T actually lose it because that's how you ordered the fucking uber...I'm sorry, but that is just insulting and unforgivable. (Raise your hand if you feel personally victimized by Taco Bell. *raises hand, stands up, stands on chair, starts waving both arms in the air*).


I have a tendency to ramble. Back to my original point.


My name is Kathryn. I'm 28 years old and I have stage 4 ovarian cancer.


This blog isn't for sympathy or for you to feel sorry for me. I used to feel sorry for myself, especially during a round of chemo.


Then, I was out shopping and I saw a woman with the most awful haircut and dye job in the world, and I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling sorry for her. She obviously needs it more than I do.


I still think about her sometimes. I hope things have improved.


So yeah. I am me. I have a fucked up sense of humor, and I like to write. I also like to bake.


My best friend likes to say, "food so good you'll want to make it your last." This was the inspiration for the name of this blog. Dark and twisty, just like me. She's my person.


So I decided to start this blog.


My name is Kathryn Wright. I'm dying. I'm fighting. I'm living. I'm breathing. I'm living.


I'm dying...for nachos.


Welcome to Death Row Delights. This is my story.

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..."Hey Siri, does Postmates deliver Taco Bell?*













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