The art of doing less

Poor Boogie, he and I are two broken animals. Together, *dramatic music* struggling limping through life but determined to hang on. I am sorry that I listened to the vets and fed him that expensive prescription dry food all of those years that led to his diabetes. Who can I blame? How about the NP in Aspen who took just a look at my lump and told me I was too young for breast cancer at 30? Is it her fault I didn't get a second opinion? Aren't we as a culture raised to trust the medical professionals? See what mistakes they make? See why I question everyone's motivations and opinions and don't hold them higher than my own anymore? Can you blame me.

People sometimes ask me what I did in life to get cancer. As if they need to know how I caused myself to be sick. It isn't enough to realize my fecundity potential is zero, but now I have to wonder what I did to deserve it? I have heard a lot fucked up shit, but this one always gets me. My reply should be just as cutting, but I play the good little girl. I just answer the question, and move on. "I have no idea how I got cancer, it just happened."

It permeates everything in my life. I can't separate myself from it anymore. That is why I am always writing about it. Can the two-headed girl ever get a moment to herself?

Starting in about 2008, when I was going to Eatm (Exotic Animal Training and Management program), I stopped thinking about cancer everyday. But the schedule of 10 hour days 7 days a week without any breaks would have done that to anybody. I did have moments when I would have liked to have shared my fears with someone back then, but there was nobody to turn to. I tried to talk to the vet and her assistant, but they couldn't offer me any help. I was very concerned about my surgery side, having had the lymph nodes removed made it important to keep that arm protected. You can't exactly wear a glove all day, but I couldn't think of how I was supposed to keep myself safe. Animals can scratch and bite right through latex, and the gloves themselves get dirty fast. Nobody seemed to give a shit, and truthfully I didn't turn to anybody because I keep things to myself, I am too proud to beg. Notwithstanding, I am not too proud to post my Chipin link if someone feels they want to help a sister out. I have spent plenty of my own money on alternative, all of it in fact, over the years, and not being able to work a regular job puts me in a precarious position.

Looking back, I don't think having gone to Eatm when I did was the most responsible thing I could have done. But, from the viewpoint of a person with the passion I have, there was no doubt I had to do it. Almost 3 years out was too soon, but cancer treatment taught me what hell was. It made the Eatm program seem possible, whereas before it seemed insane. Who goes to school 7 days a week for 2 years without being able to earn an income and "only" come out with 3 associate's degrees from taking maximum units, and max certifications? What made it make sense is, it is the only one of it's kind in the world, and the experience's I could gain there was second to none. Downsides: the hours, the physical requirements, zero time off, the health risks, the social isolation and the competitive structure spelled disaster for my recover from cancer and the treatment that beat me down.

At the time I was concerned about lymphedema in that arm, I wasn't thinking metastatic cancer was my future. My concerns were having this boggy arm for the rest of my life. A hot, boggy, red, painful, ugly arm. They are finding out that people who have had radiation as part of their treatment are the ones at risk for poo-poo arm. I didn't have rads there. Rads/surgery/drugs bring upon us a GREAT risk disguised in many forms and scientific names. Thank you for making me feel like shit for not wanting to take those risks. That is a shout out to the naysaying doctors and nurses who like to guilt terrified newbies into dangerous procedures claiming there are NO OTHER CHOICES. I hate that.

There are a lot of other choices, they lie to us. They lie to themselves. It is up to the patient to recognize the messages and receive them. I take that approach by nature. I read. Most people put their blindfold's on reaching for the doctors hand following him till he pushes them into the black tunnel of horror. This is a lone journey, a quest even. We are the one's who make the decisions, we are the one's who take the poisons, the one's who suffer side effects that can cost us our lives instead of making us better, they make us die faster and in pain. For what? Money.

Where am I now? In terms of a career, that would be nowhere. I am nowhere. I got to train some tigers and small exotic cats for 3 months last year and have worked with dogs. I haven't proceeded forward in the paid animal training arena since moving counties. It's not that I've tried and failed, but I still feel like a failure. I half-heartedly, semi-applied (urged by a friend) to work with birds, but my gut feeling is that they don't pay shit and I would most likely be on call. No thanks. I don't do on call. If someone is sick I would be the back up. So what, I don't have a life if someone doesn't want to go to work? How much notice is that? I have 3-4 doctors appointments every week, I cannot be flaking on myself. I have put work first so many times and then I don't eat, take my supplements, go to appointments, detox or make the time to study up. Work zaps me. As much as I love work for various reasons; the balance of schedule, and money coming in, it does not take priority over my survival.

Don't get me wrong, I love working with exotic animals. But, you are at the mercy of people and their requirements. People get twisted up in the "me" of their lives. Your problems are not my problems. I have a problem that is bigger than your problem, are you going to drop everything to help me with mine? My attitude comes from having had to suffer over a period of several years. When one looks at life in this impermanent way all of the time, other people's little problems appear as fleeting pieces of paper on the wind. Here, and gone. So, why bother getting all worked up?

The problem with people who have a lot of money is that they're used to making people jump to attention. I think I was supposed to plead for a job, I was supposed to keep emailing, proving my loyalty in advance. Like begging for a job on their sprawling acreage, willing to sign confidentiality agreements to protect their identity. I have the skills, in fact I'm overqualified. You should be begging me to work for you. And really, I just don't care enough.

The really hard part, the super tricky thing, is to figure out and accept what priorities are in what order. What drives people? Money, sex, ... that's it, I think. If you have both of those, you are supposedly having a pretty good time in life right?  My priorities are not the norm.

When I get up in the morning, or afternoon, depending on how late my body kept me up fending off whatever medications it's having to deal with, the things I do all revolve around health. It's pretty repetitive, it's boring, it's only me doing it. I have to be home to do it. At no time is it ever enjoyable, or fun, or interesting. I'm always alone. At many points in time it's very time-consuming, messy, involved, nauseating and can I just say fucking mundane?

Then, there's Boogie. The other half to this home-healing project never-ending. He is a diabetic cat, newly diagnosed. He's still urinating every 2 hours or so. He eats a ton of  expensive grain-free food I now buy for all 3 cats. Poor Boogs. He can't blog about it :( He takes it in stride, I think. He comes to get me all day long to either ask for more food, to go outside, to come back in, for treats, and just to say hello - to get some scratches under the chin.

Almost every morning as I sleep the cats surround me until I get up. Boogie being the last one, the most insistent, comes up to my head on the pillow and reverts back to acting like a kitten. It's interesting to me that he has started to do the thing he used to do when he was little.

Boogie was born of a feral mother who took off before the kitties were fully weaned. My friend aware of them, had told me he wanted to adopt them out before they took off into the bush. I had agreed to take one. That cat is Boogie, my 15 years old diabetic manx. all-black, with yellow eyes, badass cat. He doesn't meow. He makes clicking sounds from the back of his throat. Mostly, he looks up at you with his unusual yellow eyes, opening and closing his mouth, making not a sound except that you can hear his lips parting, you can see his sides heaving with the effort. Every once in awhile he squeaks.

When I first brought Boogie home, he was about 5 weeks old, tiny, all black with silver racing stripes down each side, from his shoulders to his hips. His face was framed in a comical mane with a silver edge bordering it. No tail to speak of, not even a nub. He was so black all you could see were his yellow eyes. He appeared to be without a nose or mouth. He hid under the couch when I brought him to my tiny studio on Spook Hill in Summerland. He was such a wee little kitty! I fed him raw goat's milk since he wasn't weaned yet. He drank that for 2 days then never touched it again, he loved to drink lots of water. He loved water.

At night, when it was time to sleep, my 2 cats, Boogie and Chickie, would be up in my loft bed with me. The first night, poor Boogs was missing his mom who had run off, and his 4 sisters he would never see again. He snuggled up to my neck purring, but began to frantically nuzzle my neck until he latched onto my chin. He was sucking my chin. I moved his mouth but he just found his way to my nostril. He was desperate to latch on to something. The next moment he found my earlobe. From then on, that is where he went to find comfort. We fell asleep like that every night, Boogie sucking my earlobe and purring in my ear while kneading my scalp with his wee little kitty paws until we both fell into slumber together.

It wasn't meant to last, like most intense relationships. My scalp couldn't take his claws once he grew to almost full size. It was sad, but I had to cut him off. I am not a milk machine. I have to mention that on that first morning after I got Boogie, I awoke to him fervently trying his best to extract milk from my own nipple! I put a stop to that immediately. Doing that made feel guilty, he seemed desperate and lonely.

Lately, he has taken to coming up to my head and doing the kneading behavior on the pillow while he drools and purrs into my scalp. The one thing he doesn't do is latch on to my earlobe. Has he forgotten? Has it been too long? I am surprised he is patterning this old behavior at all, but he is. I believe it is because he knows how much I've had to do to keep him alive in the last 2-3 months. He knows. I wish he would suck my earlobe though. I love my animals so much I would do anything for them.

I will never be a human's mother. Cancer took that away from me. Maybe I would have chosen to not have any kids had cancer not happened, there is no way to know. All I know is I don't have that responsibility. I won't know what it's like to be that important in another human's life. I'll take the loss of responsibility and run with that. No need getting warped over what has been taken away.

Daily survival is reliant on me counting every good thing that I have over, and over. It's quick and easy to get down on life when doing the opposite. I have a lot to complain about if I want to think about it, who doesn't? Since in a way it feels like I am counting down the days I don't want life to be about what I am missing, or don't have. I have a lot. I have a roof over my head, 3 cats left, work sometimes, a complete family, I can still walk around, I have friends, I live by the ocean, it's quiet here. That's a lot to be happy for. It's a ton.

It just occurred to me that this all seems a little depressing. I write to get this off my chest and who knows, maybe there is someone out there going through similar shit, and this helps them? Today has been so very quiet. Not one time has my phone rung. I've been sitting here for hours writing and messing around with the blog layout. It still sucks, but I lost interest in doing it. As I've been writing it's been getting darker and darker. The only light is the glow from my computer screen. Out the window I can see across the town to the ocean, more and more streetlights are appearing in the distance. I had meant to get out for a walk while the sky was light, but now it looks like night-walking is the thing. Sometimes it feels like I am the only one in the world who knows I am alive. Like I am the only one alive. If I were hiking out in the mountains alone this would be meaningful, significant. But, I'm sitting on my couch couch in my cozy clothes, in the dark, and the phone hasn't rung all day, it's just pathetic.

A movie. I'll should go see a movie downtown, I'll walk there. It's the little things.

Hungry for more

I wonder after I'm dead, how a stranger is going to handle my cold, naked body. I won't be there to cover up. It's not time to be modest, because you're dead, you can't do anything about it anyway, it still makes me feel sketchy. Some stranger with their foreign eyes, looking upon my imperfections makes me uncomfortable.

I wonder if I will be able to donate my corneas? I wonder if any of my body parts will be worth giving to anyone in need of body parts? I have a decent heart, except for that chemo I did that damages the heart...I've been athletic most of my life and eaten healthy. By the time I die my liver might be fucked, and my lungs. I should probably not write about this, or think about this. If there's any truth in creating a destiny based on manifesting it through thought, this isn't a safe way to spend a late night evening.

I should work on going to bed earlier. Now that I'm not enjoying a beer at home, or glass of occasional wine, what is the point of staying up late? Isn't the wine to help me sleep because I stay up late? Maybe that's the real reason I can't sleep. Maybe I should be better at smoking medicine to get into the mood to sleep. So much to remember all of the time. When one gets busy relaxing it's hard to remember that relaxing can also be work.

Everything is work. I mean, the pay is shit, it's zero in dollars, but to have to remember every day all of the possible combos of things to take and do, just for that job, the most important one, it's dizzying. I used to always think it was boring. It's not boring, it's just tedious.

If I really had my shit together, which I will hope to do tomorrow, I would have a list in place again and follow it like a map to a treasure. If you have to do the same things over and over but can't do them all in one day, it helps to know when you can, and what they are. That's called 'having a schedule'. Maybe if I thought about a schedule as not only something someone else imposes upon me, I could get over making one.

At this point in my life I can't take orders from anyone. At least with work I know it's over quickly and I pretty much make my own hours, but I still have to answer to someone at some point. But, really, really-really, I answer to no one. I have super cancer-ego now. My time is so important to me that everyone else can just kind of take a hike. If I don't want to do something, I just won't, and I won't give anybody an excuse as to why not. I just don't give a shit anymore. This must be how certain old people feel, then act upon it. But, I won't be farting openly in the supermarket, or cut in line pretending I don't see people waiting there. I have to save something for old age just in case I get there.

I used to complain to myself about how much it is going to suck getting old, but not now, not ever. I'm now occupied thinking about how I won't know what that's like and wishing I knew how much more time I actually had. It's so weird. I think about shit like this everyday, sometimes all day. What should I be thinking about? What do other people normally think about? I'll tell you. They think about shit they're going to buy, and about how much money they don't have. They think about how they look and how getting old is going to suck. They think about the future, they feel like they have so much time to do things they've dreamt about. They are comforted by the idea that someday these dream places will be visited, the dream people will be met, or the dream job will come along. We fool ourselves all of the time. How about thinking that you will never see Africa? Or you will never be able to afford the car you've always wanted? You will never snowboard at break-neck speed in a foot of powder, first chair, down your favorite runs at Highlands? What if you knew things that were going to be true and you would just have to get over it now, because it is never, ever, going to happen? Never. I think about this shit all day long. All day.

There is plenty to do, there always is, but my brain is always analyzing everything. And the stupid idiot analytical tendencies trend on repetition. It's like a bad song chorus playing over, and over again.

I don't know what life I'm supposed to be living. I have vacillated between trying to work, and trying to do the right things to slow down or get rid of the cancer. There can only be one true priority, so anything I add to my life to make it more interesting, or even normal, totally ends up annihilating my single most important job. The first casualty, always, is my cancer treatment routine. It's in my power to control. It is mainly self-administered. I am the patient, and the doctor, and the manager. So, I'm fucked. I don't like to rise early, I don't like being bossed around and I like spontaneity, not routine. I need a manager, but one who I'm the boss of.

I was hoping what'shisbutt would step in one of these years and do something about it, but he's less organized than me, tending to flake when I ask for anything hard to do. He's becoming less and less reliable. It drives me to anger when I am working on fighting for life everyday. You don't have real problems -is what I want to say to people sometimes when I see them get wrapped in things that don't matter that much. It's maybe not fair to make that judgement, some people really do have problems, but nobody I know has real problems, unless they are hiding a child porn room somewhere. It's the worst thing I can think of pretty much and you would definitely hide that shit from everyone.

Among my inner circle, I would say I have the shittiest hand dealt currently. I could be wrong. I'm not complaining about being the one, or feeling jealous of anybody who doesn't have the C. I would never wish a role were reversed, or anything like that. I wouldn't wish this on anyone I know, or trade. I want everyone I know to be healthy. I feel like I've had other lives where I've suffered a lot. It's familiar, but I can't put my finger on it. I don't want it, but somehow I know that I can take it because I've been through worse. But then I can't think of what's worse. That's what makes me think I must have suffered greatly in past lives. Not highly logical, but at the same time it is. It's like feeling old before your time. As if you feel intrinsically that you know what it's like to be very, very old.

Did I experience something worse, but it's forgotten? Chemo was the absolute worst. I can survive anything less worse than that much easier. Chemo took the suffering trophy. When I was going through chemo I knew what hell meant finally. The worst suffering my body and mind have ever experienced. No reprieve, no break. It was like I was burning and dying. I'm sure people get injured and it sucks and is painful, but for how long? How about 6 years? I never want to go near that again. Wow, it is to the depths and then deeper. Ugh. It's indescribable.

It is time for a burrito. Burrito-time. Because my newer meds make me nauseous and think that food isn't something to enjoy, I don't eat that much anymore, which is kind of cool because food can be a crutch, just like alcohol, sex, and any other addiction there is. But then it isn't so great because losing the enjoyment one gets from eating is a little catastrophic. It reminds me of chemo. Well, it is technically chemo, just not the kind that can kill you quick. This one takes longer.
I have recently stopped taking that medication, recently meaning 2 days ago maybe? I can't remember because short-term memory trouble is a side-effect from chemo. I oftentimes relate to the character in the movie Momento.

Writing myself little notes so I don't feel crazy when I forget basic things like people's names, ones I've known my whole life. Sometimes I forget basic words like, garage, or basket.

I'm going to get my one meal of the day (such not good planning, supposed to be eating frequently) then go for a walk at the beach.

Walking is a monumental event to me since it's been months since I've allowed myself to do it for further than just to my car and to shop. My right foot had a nerve pain in it that became excruciating, but then my holistic vet friend did some body work on my and it went away. Yeah. Really interesting. She's found out she is a healer, with past lives and shit. Another story for another day.

I know a lot of really interesting people. It makes me feel connected to the planet even more, reinforcing my purpose here. And, for all of the scary that is cancer treatment and decision making, these people reinforce to me that I should follow my heart. When making big life decisions it's up to each person to decide what goes and what stays. I don't want to be stuck, and I've been stuck. I don't like being made to feel like a victim by doctors, they can fuck right off. I don't think anyone knows everything, and the lines are so blurred, how can anybody play God like that? Burrito time!

In a hummingbird heartbeat

Today was a white out. Or, was that a wash out?

Whatever the fuck it was, it's over now and I sit here with 2 out of 3 cats wondering if what I'm doing is working. So, the same old shit I think about daily is what is going on. God, this heat pad on my back sure feels good. It's the little things.

A rudderless boat, I am. I know what it is that I want, but I don't know how to get it. I have so much to share, but by the time I get to here, it's over. The ideas, the formulation of the plan ...it's all fucking gone.

So much of what is important to survival is the thought process that gets me from this, to that. And, being able to solidify it is important to me so that I can work it out! Why then can't I remember?

Here's the thing: When the magic of the moment is upon us, being in the moment is the experience. One can't very well stop being in the moment to write about it. Reliance upon the memory much later is necessary to regurgitate these ideas and observations. At the time they seem to unravel some sort of problem. There are lots of those, so when the opportunity presents itself, you take it. You take it, you think upon it, you come to conclusions, you formulate a plan, and if you are me, you promptly forget it when the day is done, and the ass is sat.

The day is all about doing. The night is all about reflecting on what was done. If I can't remember shit, that makes it damn near impossible to move past the last problem. The problem is this: I have damn stage IV cancer and I need to get rid of it.

From what I can remember I got really raw in front of this doctor today and suddenly and unexpectedly broke down after pushing out the words, "I just want to live". Hanging my head with huge tears brimming out of my eyes, my friend next to me squeezed my hand while we sat there silent. I was hoping, of all people, he would have some ideas. He sat across from me with that creepy smile he always has, like he just did a wheatgrass juice enema and it sent him to Nirvana. He sat there staring at me, unphased by my failed composure. He looked at me directly in the eyes and flat out told me he wasn't trying to work with cancer patients, only autoimmune disorders. Thanks a lot guy, thanks. I'm glad I'm giving you my money. Awesome.

I'm tired of fighting this. I am not winning right now. I hate the feeling of slipping backwards into the future. Am I supposed to just accept that I won't live much longer, much longer being a couple of more years if I'm lucky? Did I feel better after having the chat? No. No real hope was offered. It felt more like I was staring my mortality in the face and it looked back at me and said, "Yep, you're going to die from this, it's just a matter of when."

I spoke to the doctor about quitting all conventional and winging it. Seriously just going for it with all alternative, with what I can financially afford, which is a total fucking joke. I have about 5K, that is a joke, it takes so much more than that to do alternative, but I am stretched, I'm tired. It's suicide from the point of view of most people from my culture. They are the people who jump over the cliff if encouraged by doctors, so why should I listen to them anyway? They know nothing. I am not deaf. I know what time it is. I'm hearing voices, I'm hearing my inner voice. It's doubtful.

I listen, I observe and I think. I think, and think, and think, and I think that it's all bullshit. All of it. I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to be a guinea pig. I don't want to be their guinea pig. Nobody can tell me what to do, and I would very much like it if someone did. I would like to trust anyone enough to believe they can help me.

The truth is, nobody knows what will work for sure. Having advanced cancer is more complicated than early stage cancer. It's super-cancer. It's jumped hurdles, swam rivers, held it's breath for it's whole life, become invisible, travelled undetected and survived fire. I've burned right along with it, but I came out weaker, while it turned into a super-monster. My life is a complicated thing because of cancer. I can't explain it to anyone who isn't in the club. It's another planet, it's another universe.

How do you explain what it's like to realize your mortality every second of every waking moment? How do you explain what it feels like to never look at anything with indifference? How can you relay how every beautiful thing in the world means 1,000 times more than it used to? Everybody is going to die, for sure, but, do you think about it constantly? Do you feel your life is under constant threat of attack? That your body is your worst enemy and you are trapped with him in the same confined space until he kills you?

Do you always wonder if you're spending your days, hours, minutes well enough since they are ticking away faster than everyone else you know, as far as they know? People don't go to a doctor unless they're sick. How about 3 times a week, or more? Do you not plan a future because you don't think you will have one? Are you paralyzed with fear and anxiety with each new blood test and scan? They define your life, if you let them.

I don't want to be anybody's brave hero. It's such bullshit. People get off on that labeling, I've seen it, I don't like it. This disease is disgusting, and I don't think any of it is romantic, or brave or that we're hero's. We smile pretty for the camera just like everyone else does, and cry alone. Just like everyone else does.

Tonight what angers me, and by the way we aren't supposed to be getting angry it's bad for the old outlook on life, and happy cells and all of that business. Tonight what angers me, not the first time either, is the indifference my man showed. One would think that for all of the pain and suffering that has transpired that maybe some sensitivity would have evolved. I am fucking dying, albeit slowly at this point. I'm not in the home stretch or anything, but my mind is getting bent over with no lube. Just because I don't look like I'm sick.... it is one more thing that is hard to explain. It's a very lonely place to be. This is already a very lonely place.

People tell me how strong I am, how I inspire them, how they feel bad for me and how I'm going to live because I am so alive that there is no way I will become one of them. I wish it were true. But, each test I get I'm a little worse. I don't care to be strong, I don't even know what that really means. Isn't just the plain will to live strong? Isn't that built into most people? It's kind of part of being alive, isn't it? I'm not stronger than most in that way, but in other ways I am. I was a survivor long before I got cancer. Now that I have cancer people feel they know that about me and it's because of cancer, but it isn't.

What I think I am about to do is the bravest thing I have ever done in my life. I am not saying that I am going to do it right away, this takes planning, but I am thinking hard about doing it very soon. I want to go off of conventional medicine. Only keeping the bone-builder, but losing the hormone treatment. Cold motherfucking turkey. Bitch. This is the biggest decision of my life. Bigger than getting married, moving, career. Bigger than big. This is my life that is being traded. If I'm wrong I could die much faster, much, much faster. Should I risk it?

When I wrote earlier that I didn't think anything about being a brave hero, I meant that that's how some people love to be portrayed, because it feels good. They are sick, they get attention for it and it can be one of the only benefits from what is a ghastly prognosis for many. Like that one crazy woman who pretended she survived 911. She made up this complete lie about a husband that never was, lives she saved, her whole story was fabricated. She was a media darling until the string started unravelling. Then she freaked, and ran. She had craved the attention. She loved being comforted and told how amazing she was. It's cold comfort when you have cancer, but some people really get off on it. I personally find it embarrassing if anyone pulls that with me. Trying to live is just trying to live, it doesn't require bravery. What requires bravery is bucking the system, taking a stand against the odds and without any clue if you will survive. Not following the doctors advice and walking into fire, only to die, that isn't true bravery, but I'll tell you what is. It's brave to walk all the way through once you enter, it is hell. If you do chemo, you need to finish, and that part is very hard, but you have to do it. What real bravery is, is striking out on your own when others tell you not to. If you gut tells you one thing and everyone else tells you another, well, that is a crossroads. Unfortunately for me I don't have the money to do what I really want to do, so I am kind of screwed, I'm stuck combining my medicines.

When I say it's the bravest thing I will ever do, if I were to do it, is because I am not sure if I'm doing the right thing, it's my own idea and nobody is waiting on the other side of my decision clapping loudly, the next second reaching to hand me a trophy and an oversized check with my name on it. I am trying to save my own life. I have a lot of things I want to do still. The more time that ticks by, the more medications I try, the less effective I feel the really good and proper safe medicines will work.

All I know is that my gut is telling me, "Wrong Way!" "The clock is running out, you have to find your way through the maze or you're done, da, da, da, doooooone!" GONG.

There are a lot of decisions to make during life. There are so many crossroads we don't even realize are decisions until after we've made mistakes. Mental maps we create in our minds teach us how to not make those same mistakes again. There is no map for me to follow in this desert/mountain/ocean. It's filled with sand traps, volcano's and venomous creatures. I feel like I have no guidance. I have an idea, but that's it. I have an end result, and that's it. I don't know how I'm supposed to navigate through to the end or who to trust, so I am only trusting myself. That's fucking scary, because I don't know shit except that I've been doing it wrong. Or else whatever I was doing before no longer works. It's terrifying.

I wish a feather would float out of the sky with instructions, exact instructions, nothing impossible, but hard is fine. I'll do hard. I've already been doing it! I would follow all of them to the letter if it would cure me. It's not the battle, I'm not afraid. It's the failure of the battle to win the war. If someone could prove to me that if I were to do chemo one more hellacious, scratch-my-eyes-out, migraine-till-you-want-to-cut-your-head-off, mouth sores bleeding, sick to your stomach, bones throbbing, every joint in pain, legs giving out, vertigo, food tastes like nothing, blurry vision, body on fire, no memory, can't think, can't sleep, ugly every day, lose all light, energy, love and sanity - TIME, but that I would be over this fucking shit of a life dealing with this every damn day, I would do it in a heartbeat!!! In a hummingbird heartbeat.