Anytime I talk about my illness, I hear myself get slightly self-pitying, slightly whiny, slightly angry. I hear the words tumble out of my mouth, the things I tried so hard not to say when I was actually going through chemo. Part of me wonders if I would be more at peace with it all had I allowed myself not to be so "even" during that time. Because suddenly I feel guilty for being okay, for being alive and complaining about what I went through. Comparatively I'm lucky. I'm here, I can walk around, I can do things. In one year I went from being fine, to being sick, to being fine again. Those with long, protracted illnesses would surely envy my struggle because it was relatively short and pain-free. So who am I to lament about any of it? And what do I have to contribute by writing about it? Do I sound spoiled? I feel spoiled. I am so confused because I am supposed to feel grateful, which I am, and then I still sometimes feel robbed, which I supposed I was, but maybe I'm just supposed to move on to acceptance at this point. Just accept it and realize that there are those who are much worse off than me. I should wear my luck like a charm, and feel blessed and just contented. Maybe I spend so much time pondering the whys and the hurts, that I'm lost in them and alienating those who want to scream at me "Shut up Shut up! This is now my pain, my struggle, my hurt."
When do we get to own our pain? When there's no hope? When we're in the land of those with completely perfect lives and no one can say, "well, no, see in the competition of whose life sucks more, I win". And when do we become jealous of someone else's struggle just because ours is so much worse? What kind of fucked up logic is that? "Yes Paul, I know you don't have a left leg, but I don't have either of my legs so clearly..." I get angry at the lack of understanding of my friends who stare blankly like, oh...but then I get angry that I didn't have a harder time because I feel like a punk for even bitching about whatever it is that bothers me. It's almost as if this warped part of me wishes that I had it worse--if my tumors didn't respond, if I wound up in the hospital 4 times instead of 2, if I don't know, something anything. Then I would feel right in my occasional sadness, the twinges of anger, and I wouldn't sound ungrateful. Because maturity is about perspective and while I think that I've gained a lot of it, maybe I haven't gained quite enough. I think of those children who've been in and out of hospitals since they were babies; young men and women who have no clue when this is going to be over; the women who find out the cancer has spread and have whole families to leave behind. I think of them and feel sick and sad that I even write this all down because who I am to feel any sense of regret or pity? Who am I?
