Fearful of my Future.

I sit here late night staring at my screen.   I'll share what I'm feeling these days.  Venting is better than keeping it tucked in.

I haven't had a full night sleep in weeks.  The skin under my eyes are dry and cracking.  I flip between moments of fear, optimism and worry.

 It overwhelms me sometimes.  I'm running.  Something is chasing me and I can't see anything in front of me but trees.  Every breath in is like pulling a rasp over my lungs.  My sweat sticks to me and chills.  Perspiration leaves a trail of despair through the forest.  I'm easy to find.  The snow crunches beneath my bare feet.  It numbs what should be pain, but I can't feel it anymore.  I vault myself past trees, their bark sloughs to the ground like skin off old bones.

 I don't know where I'm going.

I can't stop moving.  Each moment to stop and breathe, it gets closer.  I can't see it, but it whispers in my ear.  It is always moving towards me.  It is relentless as it chases me.  It doesn't stop and I'm getting tired.  My leg is bruised.  It feels like someone has sewn a tennis ball between my hip and my leg.  It makes running hard.

There is no shelter.  There is only room to run.  It's patient, it knows it can take its time.  It just has to wait for me to get tired.   It can wait a day, it can wait a year, it doesn't matter.  It can pick up my trail again when it wants.  Keeping pace with it is winning, but I get tired and have to stop to catch my breath.  Balls of acidic phlegm build up in the back of my mouth.  My mouth is too dry to spit.

It is getting closer.  I can feel it.

I can stop to fight it.  It's a stop gap, hacking off a piece to sate it; then back to running.  It buys time.  It will keep tracking me down.  Waiting until I can't run anymore.  There is no shelter here.

--30--

What does it all mean?  I don't know.  I find myself trying to figure out what I should do.  This decision of doing surgery/treatment or just leaving it be is insane.  I'm angry, but I can't be angry at anything except myself.  The thing I'm angry at is microscopic and a genetic makeup of me.  My body has already attacked itself.  It's getting better at landing the punches.

The choices are do the surgery.  Have a long and complicated recovery, with a high chance of therapy afterwards.  They can find nothing and they'll still want to do it.  They can find some more cells and then will have to do it.

Or do nothing.  I can roll the dice and hope I get lucky.  Optimism hasn't visited too often.  I'm cynical and angry, which is a bad combination.  Most of the time, I want to be left alone.

This is me trying to share what's going through my head.  Trying to help you and myself understand what's happening.  Is it a plea for help? No, because there's nothing anyone can do.

March 5th is the day.  I lean towards surgery right now.  That will be followed by a treatment of Interferon, depending if everything comes black clear or positive.  If it's positive, then I will get napalmed with chemicals.  If it's negative: only scorched.

Let's go on this journey together.  I don't know what's going to happen.  I don't know where I'm going.  I just know I'm tired. 

I feel ancient.