Okay, what now?

The verdict is out, the diagnosis is certain, the sentence is given. Six to twelve months, no parole.

What do you now?

You wait. You wait for the signs that it’s growing; for the pain to increase; for the hints that it’s gotten worse. 

You grasp life with both hands, hold on as hard as you can. Every night when you go to bed, you pray the next day will be as good as the one that’s just over; that it won’t take a turn for the worse.

You make plans for the next few days, hoping all goes well. Take advantage of each minute, each hour, each day everything’s still okay, manageable, acceptable.

You live with the constant fear for what tomorrow may bring. What if time’s cut short? What if you don’t get to do that one last thing you craved so much?

The unfairness of it all eats at you but you don’t let it win. You fight it and think of good things; of all that’s left, of all you still need to say. You write it down in case you forget, so they’ll find it after you’re gone.

And everyone around you waits with you. Worries about you but won’t let you see, just in case it drags you down. Everyone’s pasting smiles on their faces, puts cheer in their voices to keep you from sensing their anguish. No one talks about death. No one talks about the end. 

Your children are stuck waiting, anticipating, expecting the hurt to be dragged on through the months of doing everything one last time, knowing it, and holding off on expressing the pain.

Because once you’re gone, they’ll only have pain left: hope will  leave with you. Then they can mourn and let loose and grieve. You won’t be there to see it and that’s okay. You know it’s coming anyway.

Cancer’s a motherfucker.

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Where’s my mind?

I think I left it in the washing machine.

Because it’s all soggy, washed out, dripping ideas down the drain.

It was so much fun taking ADHD meds called Vyvanse around Christmas time. I wrote and wrote and wrote.

I could write from 6 p.m. to midnight non-stop, words just flowing on the page – I would write so fast I left out some words. I wrote emotion, sex, descriptions. I could literally see the story unfold in my mind.

I asked my friend to read it for me and give me her opinions and ideas for changes.

I asked another friend to read a scene because she could be one of the characters.

Both gave me encouragement and praise.

My husband read the whole fifteen chapters and even if it’s a subject he’d never read on his own, he liked it. He also had ideas, caught mistakes and gave me praise.

Unfortunately, the meds also made me anxious and cut down my attention span to that of a gnat’s so I had to stop taking them.

And I stopped writing. Almost completely. Look at my latest postings on this blog and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

While weaning off the meds, my mom was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer, hence the post 3 months to live.

Now I’m taking another type of meds, Strattera, which are not working well so far. They leave me feeling depressed, desperate and sad. They don’t even lighten the ADHD symptoms yet – they take weeks before showing any improvement and I haven’t even reached the proper dosage yet – still implementing them gradually.

This is my second attempt at writing in almost a month – see here for the first one.

I read a post by Chuck Wendig, this writer I follow, who said we have to write everyday, even on days when we don’t feel like it. So here I am, writing.

The effort has given me a headache. Should have put my brain in the delicate cycle.

3 months to live

What would you do with 3 months to live? If you only had three months left of your time on this earth, what would be essential for you to accomplish in such a short time?

Would you travel? Finish that book you started (the one you’re writing, not reading)? Would you sell all your stuff and move to Florida? Would you write letters to all your loved ones? Would you run naked in the street just because no one would press charges against the lady with the deadly cancer? Would you rob a bank ’cause you wouldn’t be around for sentencing? Would you buy an expensive car with your life savings ’cause your kids will be able to sell it after you die anyways? 

Would you think of all the things you’ll miss? Like your grandchildren’s proms, and weddings? That movie you wanted to see that will only come out next year, after you’re gone? The ending to the Vampire Diaries? The next book of your favourite series? Knowing what your grandkids want to do when they grow up? Organise a last Christmas celebration, fuck whatever date it is?

Would you cry and rage and curse fate for throwing such a fucking wrench in your gear? Would you rant and cry about the injustice of it all? Would you wonder ‘why me’? Would you think back on your life to see what you did to deserve this?

Would you tell your children you love them everyday until you can’t anymore? Would you touch your spouse every chance you get? Would you make love more? Would you stay in bed and make cookie crumbs? Would you have a fling? Would you have a threesome? Would you finally tell that person (you know who) what you really thought of them? Would you write to your old boss to give him shit? Would you contact ‘the one that got away’? 

Would you make your funeral arrangements? Would you put all your affairs in order? Would you make a will? Would you start giving away your stuff to make sure it goes to whomever you want it to go to? 

Would you make a list of things that you never got a chance to do and burn it? Would you make peace with yourself? With others? Would you ask for forgiveness while you still have the chance? Would you make a list of regrets and burn that too? 

Would you be grateful to live up to four months? If so, would you regret cashing in your RRSP’s and buying that stupid car? 

I hope my mom gets to do everything she wants to do with the months left in her life,whether it’s 3, 6, 9 or 12. And I hope she dies of a quick and painless heart attack, right before the cancer wins.