For
me, fear is a much bigger battle to overcome than needles and chemotherapy. The
effects of medication are short-lived, the terror is never-ending. It’s not
that I’m afraid to die, I’m afraid of dying. I am afraid that the act of
departing will be drawn out, painful and humiliating, but worse, that it will
be ugly. I don’t want to become the ghost of my former self lying on a bed,
tubes hanging out of me, my family exhausted from keeping vigil. I don’t want
tears or maudlin goodbyes. I don’t want to see the doctor shaking his head
sadly.
I
want my family’s last picture of me to be from holiday photos, where I am
tanned and smiling, not of a weak, thin, pasty-faced victim. Everyone hopes
they will be heroic to the end. I don’t care if I die like a whimpering puppy,
I just don’t want to look like crap.
My
diary entries for the past year were often self-pitying. My attitude had been
poor on many days. Negative research and pessimistic comments sent me into a
whirlpool that threatened to drown me. Some days I felt that my life had no
meaning, that my story was not worth telling.
But
the human spirit is a remarkable mechanism. From the depths of despair we claw
our way towards the light. I learned that if I could dig down and uncover a
positive attitude from my set of emotional drawers, I could wrestle control
back over whatever was left of my life. Sometimes I had to move a lot of
sweaters and underwear, but way in the bottom, in the corner of the drawer
there would be a bit of sunshine. I just had to remember it was there.
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