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  • Kathryn Wright

The last song of your life.

There are two kinds of people in the world.


People that watch Bravo, and people with no life.


Calm down...I'm just kidding.


...Kind of. (Ironically, the people that don't watch tend to argue that the ones who watch are the ones with no life...but I digress.)


Aka, either you're a fan of the OG of the OC...or you're not.


Either you love B, or you can't stand her and are elated that she's not returning for season 12.


You're team Captain or Team Sandy. (Yes, obviously you can like both...but everyone has a preference.)


The fish room in the Berkshires is either 100% creepy and unnecessary or just another room in a very large house with a bit of swordfish sparkle.


I mean...I think it was swordfish. Hey, the "swordfish sparkle* alliteration works. Let me live my best life. Also...apparently there are those who know what kind of fish "made it nice" at Blue Stone Manor, or those who don't. See? You learn something new every day.


There are certain things you can be on the fence about...and there are some things that are black or white, plain as day. For example...you're either team Tom or Team Stassi.


JUST KIDDING. Even T-Rav would be team Stassi after last night. (Although...considering T-Rav is South Carolina's biggest perv, and Stassi has a rack big enough to have it's own solar system...that could be for *other* reasons.) Nevertheless, he would still be team Stassi because literally NO ONE IN THE WORLD would be team Tom, unless we're talking Sandoval.


There's also the great debate of 2019...there’s people that think pineapple belongs on pizza, and people that don't. And then there's the regular coffee vs. decaf debate, east coast vs. west coast appeal...etc. The list goes on and on.


Sure, there are some things that have a gray area...but the amount of things that are an "either/or" situation is equivalent to the number of times icky Vicki has changed her face, or the number of people Jax has slept with...aka a LOT.


There's also the great "glass half full" vs. "glass half empty" conundrum. Are you more of a positive person or more of a negative one?


Normally my answer to this question would be I'm simultaneously both as well as neither...I'm just a realist. But for the sake of the point I'm trying to make (aka this IS an either/or situation), I would say I'm glass half empty.


That's not just because of the crappy hand I've been dealt as of late. I just personally prefer to prepare for the worst, while hoping for the best. It's why I use morbid humor to cope. I just find it much more logical to live my life without my head stuck up a unicorns ass.


Where am I going with this? Let me explain.


The cancer thing was/is hard enough to deal with. It's not just the knowing what is probably eventually going to happen to me. Although, I've beaten several odds so far, even to the surprise of my oncologist. "I'm fortunate to have youth on my side,” apparently.


I'm 28 years old with cancer. I don't have an appetite, I have severe nerve damage from chemo, I'm dealing with severe muscle deterioration...and I CAN'T HAVE SEX. Not that I even have the strength/energy to at the moment, but the application of the word "fortunate" in regard to my situation....hard pass.


Yes, I understand what my doctor means, but considering cynicism comes as natural to me as spelling my name or breathing air...I just can't.


Anyways...like I was saying. The cancer thing is hard enough to deal with. But this whole not walking thing?


Fuck me.


I've been in a dark place this past month. Even my roommate has made comments about how I'm extra quiet (translation: this is highly unusual behavior because normally I am extremely loud and won't shut the fuck up...did I mention I'm extremely loud and won't shut up?), and just a few days ago made a comment about how I don't talk about the cancer anymore.


Nope. No I don't. Haven't. Didn't...for the past month.


I put every waking second of thought into obsessing over the fact that


I


COULD


NOT


FUCKING


WALK.


I fixated on it.


It fully consumed me.


It ate away at me.


In some ways, it was a reprieve. A fucked up blessing, if you will. Because finally, I wasn't thinking about the poison eating away at my body.


This...this monster inside me has altered my existence in a way that is almost indescribable, unless you've had your existence altered as well.


Finally, I wasn't thinking about bloodwork and medical procedures and chemo and WBC levels and all the bullshit minutiae that haunts my consciousness at 3 am.


I was now only thinking about one thing.


...To make it from the couch to the bathroom without falling over and breaking my wrist. To make it from the bathroom to the bedroom. To make it out of the fucking bathroom. It was essentially a toss up day to day if I could even stand up from the toilet.


FYI, you fully have my permission to have a laugh at my expense (not that you need my permission) because honestly, it's funny imagery.


But getting from point A to point B has been my personal hell since December 26th.


Unfortunately, like I said...I became fixated on walking. And over the course of a month, the fixation became an obsession. It was an all consuming focus that was 100% detrimental to my health.


I hardly talked, and sometimes I didn't talk at all. I was angry. I was bitter. Is it too much to ask to be able to fucking stand? To take a few steps? Apparently. And that pissed me off. And on top of that, it didn’t matter if I was standing or sitting or laying down...my legs felt like they were on fire.


I had basically 0 outside human interaction...and with what little I did, every little thing irritated me. I wanted to tell people to shut up when they weren't even talking.


I spent a lot of time staring at walls. Staring at the walker sitting (standing?) next to me. I was seething with contempt for that thing, I felt like it was mocking me. I was fully reliant on this metal frame with wheels, and I hated that. I wanted to throw it out on the street to watch it get run over by a garbage truck. Watch those 2 stupid tennis balls on the back legs roll down the asphalt and get smashed. Who the fuck likes tennis anyway?


But if I did that, how the hell would I get back in the house? Once I was finally able to hobble around with it, there was no way I could move upright without it. So the thought of getting rid of this looming presence meant I couldn’t get back in my own house...well that angered me even more.


Cue a very long session of angry crying. Which just made me even angrier and made me more bitter. I couldn't even find joy in the presence of my animals. God, I was so fucking angry.


After everything I've been through, I didn't think it's too much to ask to be able to fucking walk.


Then the "everything I've been through," aka cancer, would start to creep to the front of my mind and I would hastily block it. “I’m NOT going there,” I would tell myself. And as a distraction, I would dive deeper into layers of resentment and outrage for that damn walker.


And then, I would hit a wall. And I would sit, stare off into the distance, and momentarily entertain the thought of it all ending. No more pain, no more anger, no more suffering. It was a beautiful respite.


But it was momentary. A fleeting moment of peace. Because even through the angry haze I was existing in, even I knew the selfishness of that kind of thinking. There are too many beautiful souls lost because of circumstances outside their control. And if, when that time comes...it's going to be because of something I couldn't control. Anything other than that is inexcusable. So I would snap out of this pattern of thinking.


But fuck, I was bitter. I didn't realize I could harbor that much contempt in my soul...honestly I kind of scared myself. I was in a bad place. I hit the fucking wall.


And then, finally, it happened. I was happy.


It's somewhat inexplicable, because it's like something inside me just changed. After over a month, I woke up and was happy. I was in a beautiful house in my beautiful bed with my beautiful animals in this beautiful world.


I slept in for the first time in what seems like a million years. I saw my cats playing on the living room floor and I smiled...I even cleaned the house. Granted, I had to use the walker...I'm still extremely shaky when I walk. But I was, I am grateful for that stupid walker. Because I can get from point A to point B...to point Z. I'm slow. But I'm determined.


I'm determined to make the most of every moment. I'm determined to get my strength back so I can walk on my own again. So I can drive and feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my skin and know that I am alive. So I can dance in the rain on the front lawn and be thankful that I've made it this far.


24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.


One day.


One day is today.


What will you do with yours?



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