You will break. You will break.

I crumbled. It was as if 15 years of creating a shell shattered. My world. My emotional well being disintegrated. Around me. In front of me. Despite me. I broke. My life cracked open. Memories, regrets, questions, past love, loss, hurt and uncertainty all stored and packaged nicely within me. Tightly secured in my mind, beyond my being. Just out of reach my childhood, my teenage years and my twenties were set soundly out of conscious thought. It was all there. The good, the bad and the ugly. In a moment, perhaps with a lapse of effort my mind wandered. It weaved through my life to the extent it could recall. It danced with my devils and it sang. The louder it grew the harder it became to ignore. The levee broke. Life, my life, flooded into my present. I closed my eyes. I let the pressure surround me as I slowly drowned in my own personal sadness. Confronting each thought individually to reach the surface. I let it wash over me. It had been too long. Perhaps more than half of my life. I hadn’t come to terms with me. With my life. Now. As what I know and thought evaporate and as a new identity emerged. I let it pound against me and as I teetered on the edge of collapse I loosened my grip and I fell. I fell into my own collapse with the most welcoming arms. You would have thought I planned it. Welcomed it. Designed it. I lay still. Not recognizing my sudden failure. My lack of strength. My fragility. I lay still, somewhere between alive and dead in awe of my own weakness. Astonished that I had broken. That my life fractured despite my will. I could no longer hold it together. Not for a single second.

I don’t know how long passed. It may have been a few hours possibly less, possibly more. Time was irrelevant. No longer linear but singular. Old and young, together. Alive and dead, together. Sad and happy, together. Everything, together. I watched my dog die in my arms. I felt the loss of great friends. I spoke to them. Promising never to forget. I relived pain, loneliness, sorrow, pubescence. I had my heart broken. I broke hearts. I lied. I cheated. I stole. I acted without regard. I hurt, I was hurt. Regret. Years of living and not living, moments at a time. Discarding them. Letting go. These moments no longer mattered to me as they had. The pain wasn’t necessary. The regret could never be resolved. Mistakes could not be unmade. Life could not turn back. It would never turn back. It doesn’t need to be forgotten but it needed to be unpacked. I cleared out my house, slowly. I laid silent, eyes pulled tightly. Wanting to cry. Desperately wanting to cry but somehow unable. I lost the ability some years ago and as I try to understand where I am now I struggle still. Uncertain why I can’t do what others do so naturally. Silently I moved through my mind. I moved through my life. Letting go. The past was no longer necessary in defining me. My future had grown separate. I was no longer me. I am no longer me. I no longer know who I am. I don’t know what I am. How can you possibly know who you are, if you don’t know what are? I have the same body I have had since I was born. My hands are the same. My eyes still see the world. My shape is unrecognizable. My skin is dark and blotchy. My hair is gone. My eye lashes are all but gone. I look in the mirror and I see this figure starring back at me. I don’t know this person but somehow this is me. How can you know who you are if you don’t recognize yourself?

The flood cleared. My mind cleared. Sharper. Brighter. Focused. Certain. I know what I want. I know who I love. My love is deeper. My honesty unwavering. I know who I will be. I just need to get there. Nothing will keep me from it. Nothing. I will destroy whatever gets in my way. I will do so with no remorse. I am the letting go.

It’s not your fault, I’m happy

I have devoted all of my strength to making today slip away.  I wanted it to come and to go without me creating a single memory.  I spend every ounce of energy fighting today.  As I write this it sounds like failure but I do not see it that way.  It doesn’t really cross my mind.  I haven’t enjoyed the last 14 days of my life very much.  I do not anticipate enjoying the next 10 but I cling to a hope.  A hope that in ten days I begin to feel normal again.  When I trade pain and discomfort for me.  When I pass through the painful and disgusting days I have come to know and move into the beautiful days that occupy my dreams.  

Some days it seems unfair.  To have to endure this at any point.  You feel cheated.  A lot of people will speak of God to you.  They will mention how much he has done for you.  You nod and thank them.  But you know no God is with you.  No God absorbs your misery.  No God is curing you.  You know this because you suffer.  You suffer daily.  You undergo treatments that destroy your body cell by cell.  Treatments that will continue to ruin your body decades from today.  You submit to them.  You endure them.  You accept the consequences.  You think about your future and tell yourself, “This is saving my life.”  This is saving my life.  You repeat this when you pull your head from a bucket filled with bile.  Your face swollen.  Your eyes red and wet.  Your throat burning, you smile.  This is saving my life.  You cry all day every day without shedding a tear or making a sound.  You just cry on the inside as this sadness builds.  You just want to be better.  You just wish it would go faster.  You don’t pray.  You hope.  It isn’t even about your mortality anymore.  You haven’t been concerned with death in weeks.  This doesn’t surprise you.  It gives relief.  You understand you will live.  You repeat it.  I will live.  You don’t see another option.  I will live.  Sadness weighs on every cell in your body. Sadness becomes its own cancer. 

Time, your new worst enemy is more oppressive than the cancer you are trying to eradicate.  There is no treatment for time.  Regardless of your efforts, it continues at its slow and steady pace.  It allows you to appreciate each minute of your day as you struggle through it, knowing that another minute is right behind it.  Minute by minute thats how you live.  Soon, as your body heals, that will change.  You will change.  The sores that coat your mouth and throat will heal.  The constant vomiting will subside.  Your hunger will return.  Your hair that falls out in clumps will return.  Life, will return. You just have to get there.  You can cry.  You can laugh.  You can sit.  You can stand.  You can lay.  It doesn’t matter.  It won’t change a thing.  You must wait.  You must endure.  The end of your suffering is near.  This is saving your life.  And only you alone can do anything about.  Fight your mind as you fight time. Fight everything.  Fight. 

Maybe tomorrow will slip away.

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It’s only seven minutes. Seven minutes on each side. Three times a day. I walked into the room after my cat scan and a man quickly put a tattoo on my chest and back. It’s just a dot but it’s with me know, forever. The dot helps them align the lead blocks that are made in the exact shape of your lungs. You lungs cannot handle the treatment so they need to be protected. When you walk in they tie a harness around you and make you stand in a structure made of pipes and plexi glass. You are tied to the structure in the event you lose consciousness. When your shoulder guards are tightened they pull a large piece of plexiglass in front of you. At this point you are completely sandwiched in this contraption. They quickly leave the room as the 12” door slowly closes. Moments later the machine begins to scream. You stand still. Waiting. Counting. Trying to think of anything but what this machine is doing to your body. You panic. You hate this machine. You don’t want anything to with it. Six minutes left. The screaming continues while music plays quietly in the background. Nothing can distract you. Five minutes left. Your legs begin to burn and shake. You think you can feel the radiation penetrating your body. Four minutes left. You tap your hands to the beat. Count some more. Imagine yourself anywhere but here. Three minutes left. Your skin grows hot. Sweat beads on your brow. You feel the nothing coming. Two minutes left. You breathe as much as you can. Afraid that your lungs are expanding beyond the plates you shorten them. One minute left. Your entire body is on fire. Your hearing is almost gone and your vision has began to tunnel. The sound stops and so do you. You made it but you didn’t walk away from it. They quickly pull you from the structure and into a chair. There is no color in your face. Covered in sweat you ask them for a drink. They check your vitals. Good to go. They wheel you out and put you behind a curtain to wait to be transported back to your room. It’s 8:30AM and you have to do this two more times today. You break down.

You’ve been admitted for less than 24 hours and you’re unwilling to go on. Everything up until now doesn’t matter and suddenly your situation is real. It only takes a moment but finally, after 170 days of repeating it, it’s all very very real. You try and convince yourself it’s going to be okay but the panic is severe. It’s widespread. You want out and you want out now. Knowing you’ll die without treatment doesn’t concern you. You just can’t go on anymore. You won’t.

You break down further. Upset and afraid you become blinded by this reality and you attempt to overcome it. It seems impossible.
I wasn’t able to do it alone. My social worker here at the hospital was able to calm me down and get me back on track. I managed to get through the radiation with minor side effects and on to chemo. My mind is focused again. I’m here to live and am willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

The last two days have been filled with nausea pissing discomfort and drug after drug after drug. Last night I has hiccoughs for over 6 hours straight. I have them now as well. I have thrown up bile a half dozen times and I got hot flashes around the clock. Today I spent nearly 7 hours in one position barely moving for anything or anyone. For those hours, as my mind danced around the universe from medication I was at piece. This isn’t enjoyable. It isn’t beautiful. It isn’t sexy. It’s cancer. It’s killing cancer. It’s your only chance at living. It’s not nearly as bad as it seems and you find the strength to endure it because going home isn’t an option. You leave now and you die. You continue to fight every day and joke about the pain because you’re bigger than this. You, are stronger than this. You, are greater than this.

You look to the future and to the past. Life before cancer and life after. Life with understanding and meaning. You aren’t sleep anymore. You know what you want and you know how to get it. In time you will be solidifying the life you had always dreamed you have. It’s all because your body decided to kill itself and because you decided to kill it just enough to live. In cancer you have to die a little to stay alive.

In 2 hours I will be receiving my stem cells. I have completed chemotherapy, possibly forever. That’s a land mark I’m willing to celebrate. The past is gone and everything I live for now is yet to come. I’ve let go. I’m embracing the next chapter regardless of how difficult each minute is.

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The ceiling was green. I was lying awake. Several bags of drugs draining slowly into my blood stream. Music in my ears but an odd silence both within me and beyond. The music attempting to hide me from it or it from me. I know this green well. It isn’t pretty or soothing. It’s just green. It means your connected, not to the world, but to a place the secludes you from it. The bed moves slowly as my body shifts. The room is warm. Your stuck in your street clothes because its too late to switch to a gown. It’s uncomfortable. It always takes a few days to get the temperature where you want it. Your stomach aches. You’re sick. You know it. You feel it. You live it. You’re sick. It’s been days of feeling ill. You’re tired. You’re exhausted. You’re sick. You’re sick of being tired. You’re tired of being sick. You’re sick and tired.

When you were first diagnosed, you never thought it would be like this. Not better, not worse. Different. Your fears were misplaced. They begin to align. The deeper you get the closer you are to it. You learn your body. You listen to it. You listen carefully. Patiently. You listen. You wait. You hope. Maybe today will be better. Please let today be better. Please.

You look at your life as a whole. It’s a complete disaster. It’s falling apart as you watch. As you wait. As you hope to survive. Things break. Your body breaks. Truths are revealed. Friends are lost. Bills accumulate. Minds wander. Problems persist. Life continues. The world moves on. You look forward. Hoping for a light. Something to hold on to. Something. Something to look forward to. A day when you won’t have this plague. This disease. This haunting disease inside you. When you will live in a body that isn’t killing itself. When you can walk outside unafraid of the world. When you can make drastic changes in your life. When you can cut ties and walk away. When you can pack up and move on. Start a fresh life with your love. You look for a path to your future. You look for something. Anything. Please. Anything. You keep looking. You will always keep looking but you’re learning. You’re deep into it. You’re closer to it. You realize it. You have cancer. You have leukemia. You are fighting and planning to save your life. There are no guarantees anymore. The light that you hoped to find is lost. You’re lost. You’re scared. Petrified as you discuss your mortality. Your life. Your death. Not with any certainty but statistically. You hang on to your hope but with new and growing concerns. The deeper you get the further you wish to be. The closer you are the further you wish to be. Your life may be plagued by this disease. It may claim your life. It may do this despite everything you have done. Despite every ounce of pain you endured. It may take you regardless. It may not. You may walk away cured. You may never relapse. Ever. You might win. You might live. Happily. Forever. After. You have to push. Push harder. Push harder. You clench your jaw. You bleed. You press on. You fight because its life that you lose. You fight for a future you imagine. You fight for the relief you hope to feel. For the love you have to give. For the dreams that cloud your mind. You fight despite the light. You fight not because you’re a fighter. You fight because you’re a survivor.

I am going to survive.

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There are mornings when you wake up upset.  You wake up overwhelmed by emotion.  It’s sadness.  It’s love.  It’s fear.  It’s everything.  You feel the weight of the world.  You feel the weight of your existence.  You question your worth.  You question your strength.  Your health.  You awake facing the world.  It judges you.  It pushes you down.  It tries to kill you.  You press back.  You fight.  You learn.  You adapt.  You live.  The weight doesn’t shift.  Your knees buckle.  Your back bends.  Your arms shake.

You think of yourself.  You’re someone who possesses great strength.  You question your endurance.  You can fight, but for how long?  The world tries again and again to remove you from it’s face.  You fight back each time, but how much fight is left?  You feel your mortality.  You know  how close death is.  You realize the gravity.  You see the fragility.  You question.  You press on.  The weight stays.  You look at your future and you don’t see any certainty.  You want to plan ahead.  You can’t.  You can only wait.  Your life will swing.  You will fight.  You will try and endure each day because it’s what you have.  You have today.  You have right now.  The anxiety builds.  You want to run around and burn the world to the ground.  You yearn to create.  You want to destroy.  You can’t.  You aren’t strong enough.  Your body hasn’t recovered.  It’s a race.  Will you get well before the window closes?  You watch out for windows.  You watched them close for years.  You watch now.  You wait.  Maybe you will be stronger tomorrow.  Maybe the hollowness in your chest will subside.  Maybe your lungs will be stronger.  Maybe your legs wont shake.  Maybe the anxiety will break.  Maybe tomorrow.  You wait.  You fight.  The weight stays. 

In the 100 days that I have had cancer it has almost claimed my life on three separate occasions.  Each time I have had to recover.  I have had to learn to walk.  To breathe.  To stand.  To live.  To exist.  Just recently a contaminated bag of platelets brought me down.  I went from existing as normally as I could to being septic in less than an hour.  In three hours I lost the ability to walk and by morning I could barely breathe.  You might go to bed at night worried you won’t hear your alarm.  I go to bed afraid I won’t wake up.  When I wake up I feel the weight of this realization.  I feel the weight of each day I have lived, of each mistake I have made.  I feel the weight of my disease.  The weight of my dreams. I wake up to the weight of my world every single day.  Some days, it’s harder to hold than others.  Today was one of those days.  My body shifting through it’s emotions.  My love deeper.  My anger harder.  My hope inspiring.  My fear blinding.  My life continuing. 

I’m tired.  I’m tired of so many things, but I would rather wake every morning smothered by the world than to never wake again.  As heavy as all of this feels, I will carry it.  I will carry it every single day.  I just hope it reminds me to stay focused.  To stay driven.  To appreciate the weight.  To grow stronger under it.  To live.

This has been harder than I could have ever imagined.  It’s heavier than anything I have had to hold.  It’s stronger than anyone I have had to fight.  I will toughen my knuckles.  I will strengthen my body.  I will continue to fight.  I will live.  

self portrait: 2010

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It may have been a jingle. It could have been a song. It may have been a scene. It was placed annoyingly in whatever nonsense that was consuming me for thirty minutes. Before it had ended there were tears in my eyes and my mind was swirling. I gripped the edge of my couch to pull me out of it. It did not. I was already grounded. This was deeper, heavier. I closed my eyes. This was sincere. This was real, incredibly so. I sat there quietly. Alone. The TV in the background shitting into the room. A sketchpad on my lap. Pen strokes in the shape of a cat. The light brighter than I wanted it to be. The coffee table an inch too big. The heater a tad too loud. The couch soft but worn. Everything in the room could be perfect, but that wouldn’t change one simple fact. It was easy to misplace. I was eager to set it aside but the truth was plain. I have cancer. It is so easy to say and repeat. I have cancer. I discuss it effortlessly. I have cancer. It is so easy to say.

I woke up on October 1st like I had for years earlier. Snoozing. Showering. Styling my hair. Dressing. Leaving. Mindlessly moving through my morning. My commute. My day. When I went to sleep that night everything would change. I would wake up in pain. My jaw throbbing. My groin torn from my body. I stumbled to the bathroom and took as many pills as I could swallow. I laid back in my bed. Hurting. Oddly. Randomly. Throbbing. Eyes wide, I waited. Each minute closer to my painless future. I waited. The pills dissolved in my blood stream and my heart pushed them through my body. The pain subsided and I faded.

My alarm went off at around 7. I ignored it. I tried to sleep. 9 more minutes. I couldn’t. I had a headache. No. I had an ache in my head. I got up. My groin was fine. Odd. My jaw was fine. Odd. My head hurt. Odd. Back to the bathroom. More pills. Less pain.

Step and repeat. This continued for 30 days. Step and repeat. Pain in the morning. Pain in the evening. Pain in your head. More pills. Less pain.

Doctor after doctor confused by it, this spot on my head that hurt to the touch, that throbbed every minute of every single day. Round and round. Step and repeat. How long would this last? More pills. Less pain.

60 days. Five doctors. Two ERs. Four bottles of Aleve. One hurricane. One neurologist. A bottle of steroids. One cat scan. Three X-rays. Two flights. A concerned mother. One PA. One blood test. That’s what it took. One person. One amazing person. It was luck honestly, or fate depending on your views. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t enjoyable. It was almost over. I will never forget what she said to me. I will never forget her. She saved my life. It only took her 30 minutes.

Three days later the clock starts.

Eighty days. Eighty days ago I sat in NYU listening to a man I did not know tell me I had cancer. 80 days ago I froze my sad sperm in a Kip’s Bay brownstone. 80 days ago I went to the last bar I have been to. 79 days ago I was admitted to the hospital. 77 days ago I would need oxygen to breathe. 75 days ago I was transferred to Sloan Kettering. 74 days ago I didn’t die. 65 days ago I crashed. 64 days ago I was intubated. I was put into a short, but pleasant, drug induced coma. 62 days ago I woke up, enraged. I woke up from my old life. The next 24 hours would change me, hopefully forever. 61 days ago I had a tube ripped out of throat. 60 days ago I had my first sip of water in nearly 10 days. 58 days ago I would leave critical care and breathe on my own again. 57 days ago I would see my body for the first time in nearly 2 weeks. I would not recognize it. 55 days ago I met O. 53 days ago I brought in the new year with an overwhelming sadness. 33 days ago I slept in my bed for the first time in 46 days. Two days ago I sat on my couch, gripping it. Swirling. It’s so easy to say.

You realize you are afraid. You are dangerously afraid. Your gut turns. You are so intensely afraid. You see it coming. You push it down. You distract yourself. You forget how heavy fear is. You face it. You bear it. You wait. It’s only a matter of time. Your enemy or your friend. Both. You wait. Step and repeat.

It’s so easy to say.

The clock counts down. 420 days. If everything, and I mean absolutely everything goes well, I will be cancer free. I will have been cured of cancer. I will be a new man. After 500 days of cancer. I will be me. Finally.

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The wall is hard but it’s comforting. There is something about how solid it is that almost makes it soft. The corner of a towel rests against the side of me head. My feet on the white soft bath mat. I fall asleep. Briefly. My throat burns. There is a lump in it. The lump burns. My head is tired. My fingers are numb. The nausea won’t let go.

I walked in the door. Flush and pale. Hot. Panicked. I cursed as I kicked off my shoes. It wasn’t happening fast enough. I was running out of time. I burst into the bathroom shedding my belongings. I waited, poised to release whatever my body desired. I waited. Nothing. I waited. Nothing. My stomach was gone. My mind spinning slightly. I had avoided this for months. Feared it for longer. I stood up and moved to my bed. I stripped down, pulled back the comforter and laid. I gripped my stomach. I waited. I felt it coming. There it was. My stomach ejecting its belongings. I closed my mouth tight. The burning was there. I raced to the bathroom. It began. The first one was the worst. I miss judged my angle and sprayed vomit all over the room. It was on the walls, the door, my legs, behind me. I was impressed. Then the thrusting began and it just came and came and came. I couldn’t see my face, but I could feel it. It was mangled with discomfort. It continued. The burning. The lump.

Cancer isn’t pretty. As I sit here against the wall, inches from my toilet. I was foolish to think I could get away without it. But I am learning. Every day I learn. The pain, the discomfort, they don’t last. Pain is impermanent. Face it. Accept it. Let go.

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I wasn’t ready.  I heard the enthusiasm in her words but the feeling wasn’t shared.  I stared at her.  Confused.  You’re going home today.  She waited for a smile.  Nothing.  I wasn’t ready.  The chemo was still fresh in my body.  46 days.  I nodded.  My heart pounding.  My head beginning to spin.  I knew this day was coming.  I wasn’t ready. 

I moved through my room, shakily.  My hands still unable to focus.  I reached for my belongings.  46 days.  The room emptied into two bags.  They were heavy.  I felt their weight.  I could hold them, but not for long.  My body was weak.  I miss my strength.  My stability.  My ability.  The room was ready.  I dressed.  Jeans.  T-shirt.  Flannel.  Vans.  My pants cuffed slightly.  My hat cuffed slightly.  This was me.  This is how I left the world.  I look the same.  I am different.  I laid on the bed.  I waited. 

Hours passed.  The TV going on in the background.  I stared out the window.  The shadows moved.  The sun set.  Lights came on.  I fell asleep, unknowingly.  I woke up to a knock.  The doctor entered.  I unbuttoned my gown.  My chest.  He ripped the bandage from my chest and exposed my central line.  Gloves.  Mask.  Scissors.  Scalpel.  He removed the stitches one by one. Then reached for the lines.  He counted down. 3. 2. 1.  He pulled the line from my chest.  I closed my eyes expecting to feel something.  I expected to see blood.  Nothing.  I opened my eyes.  I looked at his hands, holding the line.  It was long and wet.  I took a picture.  He put on a new bandage.  We shook hands.  Good luck. Obrigado. He smiled.  I am indebted to you.  He left.  I stayed.  I laid back in the bed.  I waited.

The nurse walked in.  A bag in hand.  Medications.  Instructions.  Sign this here.  Sign here as well.  Are you clear on when to take this?  Are you missing anything?  Do you have any questions?  You are all set.  

You can leave now.  

The room was empty.  The nurse smiled.  This was good news.  I was nervous.  I was afraid to leave this new world.  I was safe here.  I was comfortable.  I knew this place.  I didn’t know the city anymore.  I didn’t know it anymore.  I lifted the bags unto a wheelchair.  I spun it around and moved through the doorway.  I walked the halls one last time.  Goodbye.  The floor felt different.  It was harder then I remember.  Goodbye.  I grasped the wheelchair handles.  Through my gloves I could feel the finger notches.  I pressed the button.  A red circle appeared.  The chime.  The doors opened.  We entered the elevator.  This was it.  The doors opened and on the other side was the world.  The lobby filled with people. They moved quickly.  They moved slowly.  The sick, the dying, the living and the fighting.  Passing through the doors of the hospital.  Outside.  The air warmer than it should be.  The concrete harder than I remember.  The city.  My mom and I embraced as the cab pulled to the side.  The trunk loaded.  She left with the wheelchair.  The door closed.  The city passed.  I rolled down the window as we caught light after light moving south on York Ave.  The city as I recalled it.  The lights as I remember them.  I relaxed my head against the window’s edge and slowly pulled down my mask.  The air passing over my face.  My heart relaxing.  I missed this place.  The East River.  The FDR wide open.  The Manhattan Bridge.  My bridge.  My city.  Brooklyn. the BQE.  Your ad here.  Graffiti, Condos, Apartments, Projects, People, Cars, Life.  Blocks from home.  Smiling. Eyes wide.  $36. 46 days. ICU. Pneumonia.  Intubation. Extubation. 30. Christmas. New Years. Anniversary. Birthday. Needles.  Pills. Chemo. Bleeding. Bronchoscopy. IVs. Injections.  Reactions. Rashes. Burning. Tingling.  Hallucinations. Walking,  Breathing. Numbness. Death. Life. Children.  Fear. Hope. Love. Anger. People.  Friends. Family. Loss.  Gains.  Life. 

46 Days. $36. I walked into my building.  Shoulders struggling with the bags.  No heavy lifting.  I walked.  My door was in front of me. 1C.  The welcome mat.  The torn edge still in place.  I knocked.  It opened.  Jackie smiling.  I was home.  My floor.  My windows.  My fridge.  My shower.  My life.  My cats.  My bed.  I dragged the bags down the hall, past the kitchen.  I removed my mask.  I removed my gloves.  I hugged Jackie. I was home.  I felt the hardwood under my feet, it was softer than I remember but perfect.  My bed.  I turned.  Closed my eyes and fell.  My bed.  Sinking slowly.  Jackie took a picture.  Home.  46 days. I was alive.  I laid there.  The anxiety released for now.  I was living in the letting go.  Every day.  All day.  Forever.  

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Breathe in. Hold. Breathe. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe. I could see my eyes in the reflection of the plastic. The magnet began moving. The metal spinning around you. The hum grows louder. You feel your chest holding tight. Your arms extended over your head. Your fingers interlocked. You wait. Your body moves forward slowly. It stops. Backward, slowly. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe. The hum grows louder. I close my eyes. There is an anticipation surrounding me but I find comfort in it. I’m relaxed. I listen to the hum. I know this won’t hurt. I smile. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe. I feel my chest. It doesn’t hurt. I think back to the last one. The feeling of the iodine rushing through my veins. The heat. The taste of metal. It’s over and I joke with the technician. I like his name. I tell him I do. He wheels me out of the room.

Sweat builds up inside my gloves. I stare at them and take a picture. The gloves are too big for my hands. My face is covered by a mask. I wonder why I’m not more uncomfortable. Why the sweat isn’t bothering me. I man grabs my chair and pushes me down the hallway. The elevator doors open. He is a musician. M17. Back to my room.

I settle in. 42 days after admission. I know my floor. I know my nurses. I know their names. I joke. I laugh. I kid. I walk. I talk. I hope. I live.

When I was admitted to the hospital I saw my world collapse. It shrunk in an instant. I was angry. What I didn’t see is what existed in my new world. It took awhile to realize that something else existed here. Something I had never experienced before, anywhere. I watched each day as the people around me smiled. They worked. They cared. They were happy. The floor was filled with a staff that loved their work. They loved what they did. They were happy. I watched them. I watched my seemingly small world grow. There was so much more to it now. These people were more important than the amount of space I had to roam around in. More important than cold air and a morning commute. They were more important than wearing clothes. These people were special. Each day I’d learn more about them and them me. We treated each other like people. We were honest, direct, playful. I wasn’t in a hospital. I wasn’t trapped on a floor. I wasn’t confined to a room. I was surrounded by good people. I was happy. I was safe. I was alive.

The moment I knew I had cancer, my mind filled with a regret that I won’t ever forget. A regret so thick it was heavy. In the instant that it smothered me I knew that I wasn’t happy. I hadn’t been for a long time. I had let too many people take advantage of me for too long. My life lacked purpose. I lost track of my priorities. I lost touch with my family. I wasn’t home enough. I didn’t create. I was lost. In that moment, I swore to myself that I would never let that happen again. I let that regret settle into me. I wanted it to stay, to remind me to push on. As the days would pass and I would swing between life and death this regret solidified. As I emerged from the ICU and regained my strength I let it go. I knew what it felt like. I knew how heavy it was. I smiled. I had my life and it was mine again.

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Patient transfer. CT. Checking on the bilateral pneumonia. #fightingcancer #catscan #leukemia #poppstrong #cancer #mskcc