I am sick.
Not “in dire need of some opiates” sick, but the kind of sick that makes your brain fuzzy and you want to stay in bed all day. I’ve taken some medicines, put on some creams where I was sore, and I’m waiting on the Coke (cola) and ginger ale to whisk me away while Carl does the lectures.
Dr.Bishop and I talked of how long I expected to work. I laughed and said until I was well into my 70s, maybe 80s, and that I planned to live forever. He didn’t see my humor. “You’ve got to be realistic”. Realistic. I have a head CT in a week, and since I can’t get my doctor to schedule radiation therapy or a gamma knife, my tumor is probably too large to operate on anymore. How’s that for realistic? Trevor isn’t helping any at home, I have a baby who needs me and little kids who cannot prepare their own food, with a father who disassociates every month or so. I berate myself over my thoughts as it replays the what if’s that hold me back from the fulfillment I’m seeking. How’s that for realistic? I hate people who want me to be realistic when I want to turn away from the darkness. Is it a crime to smile once in a while? Is it a crime to let someone be happy?
I feel that if I were happy, I’d feel much better about my outcome of things.
I know that my time here is limited. That’s why I come in every day. I know that some thing bad is going to happen. I’m okay with that. I’ll jump that hurdle when I come to it. For the time being I’d like to smile. I’d like to laugh. I’d like to share a joke or two with everyone. Just let me be happy. For once.