Live Long and Prosper

"You have such a great attitude."
"I don't know how you can be so optimistic."
"I could never be as brave as you."
"You are the strongest person I know."

I always thought it was odd for people to say these things to me while I was going through chemotherapy.  I have never believed myself to be anything but terrified during the whole process.  In fact the only thing that terrified me more was the feeling of terror itself.  The feeling of overwhelming unpredictability--the complete uncertainty of everything was paralyzing.  The only way I could cope with it was by ignoring it completely.

I actually had people become indignant at my apparent blase attitude regarding my own mortality.  I couldn't explain all of this.  I can only explain why I chose to actively work against my own consciousness.  I never want to feel that feeling ever again.

;

;

I'd been wanting to get a tattoo for some time now
but never did,
for one reason or another--who knows?
I oscillate between passionately wanting one
and thinking it's the dumbest idea.
A friend suggested I get a tattoo of a semicolon.
It's supposed to mean that I didn't choose to end my life
that I didn't put a period at the end of the sentence
that is my existence.
Choose life.
I laughed and said:
"I don't know if I subscribe to that school of thought."
thinking, the whole time
about how I still have this plan
to kill myself should it become necessary.

This is my new norm.
Cancer changed me fundamentally.
The person I've become--
I don't know her,
I don't even recognize when she's taken over my mouth--
I space out and when I've returned
the people around me have lost interest--
all have this look of pity and discomfort.

I realize I've turned into this self-absorbed, 

waxing, maudlin,

walking container of self-pity

until you can smell it oozing from my pores--

this is too heavy--
I close my mouth and scrabble for something uplifting.
There isn't.

This is my truth and it is

the only thing I have to offer at the moment.

What a downer.  Mood killer.

Give that chick a wide berth.

I keep waiting for that feeling of relief--
that feeling of regaining my life
of joy
of victory--
that feeling that I've beat cancer.
But it never comes.

Every month that ticks by
I think: "One month closer to when
this cancer comes back
and I have to do this shit all over again
--maybe.  Or maybe there's nothing to do
and I'll have to think about the train tracks again."

And every step I try to move forward
school, career, dating
I think to myself: "What's the point?"
School means more debt,
that those who survive me will have to carry.
Dating means disclosing that
I'm a time-bomb.  Maybe.
How do you live with that uncertainty?

And when someone points out that
no one else knows when their time will come
I just want to punch them in the face.
"It's not the fucking same!" I want to scream.
It's just an abstract idea for you.
For me, every cold I get--
every blood test--
every time I go to bed late after coming home from work
late, working for the insurance that doesn't seem to cover enough
and my heart races from fatigue
or my mouth is dry
or I feel hot, or wake up sweating
I think, "It's back.  It's back.  God, it's back."

It's living with fear every day.
Living with no hope.  Every day.
Living with nothing to look forward to.
No money to do those things of enjoyment.
Every day.
Trapped.  Just trapped.

Having cancer didn't build me up.
It stripped me of what was left of me.
I stripped me of joy, of hope
of thinking about the future
or planning.

It's like addiction
or depression.
Every time you think you're better
your life is trampled.
You can't make plans because your disease
is just laughing at you.
And every time, you're humiliated
by how you've gotten nowhere.
Your body failed you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
You have to carry it forever.
You have to fight forever.
You stop smiling.
Everyone else is laughing and drinking
and getting married
and having kids
and buying houses
and hosting parties
traveling on their dream vacations
even just working and being fulfilled
and you're just trying
to get through to the next minute
without drowning in the uncertainty.

All I see is Mother Nature.
The things that used to take my breath away
with beauty and power
I now bow to, in awe--not the awe of worship and love
but the awe one feels when you know
you're in the presence of something that can snuff you out
in a millisecond, and nothing you do can change that.
Raze all of your hopes and dreams and plans.
You are powerless.

I used to look at the stars and marvel

at how enormous the galaxy was.

It gave me comfort that no matter how overwhelming my life was 

no matter how terrible it felt

I was just a tiny speck on a tiny blue marble in a millisecond of time.

I used to feel comforted in my insignificance.

And now I just want to scream "Fuck you!

Why?  I don't feel lucky to have been born.

I don't feel appreciative for the chance to exist when none of the other potential

combinations of gametes never came to fruition

I didn't fucking ask for this, but You brought me here--to what?

Fuck me again?

To shove my face in my own insignificance?

Fuck you!"

And when you pause

to draw breath--your tantrum has left you breathless--you get this sense that 

Mother Nature is staring into your eyes
and unmoved by your passionate outburst 

and you're just

fucked.
She doesn't care about giving people hope.
She just is.
She's just the raw power of evolution,

this world of clumps of stardust, pressed together

to millions of degrees, so hot she glowed white with molten lava.

Her waters were here when the surface of the earth was only a Miller-Urey experiment, transmuting water

methane, ammonia, hydrogen

into organic compounds.

And she will be here far after humans are gone,

when our last monuments have long been defeated

by her rain, and wind

and all that is left of us are our teeth.

The earth spinning without you,
taunting you
You are not fit for survival.

How do you go back to living like you did before?
Mitigate this feeling of insignificance?
Why bother?  Why even get a tattoo?
In the end, it's just ink on a corpse.

I Stayed My Hand on a Dandelion

I stayed my hand on a dandelion--
those posing infestations that leave brown streaks
on shirts
and overtake gardens one property at a time
until whole blocks suffocate in their white fluff.
(I behead them with vengeful satisfaction.)
I stayed my hand because atop the next one
there was a bee
with orange globes of pollen bulging
like two bitty balloons on her legs.
I'm surprised she could still fly.
"Silly thing," I thought, "don't you know
dandelions don't need you to pollenate?"
But this is the first time I've seen a bee,
so I stayed my hand, in hopes that one day
if my actions seem to others
wretched or of little value,
or the work I give goes unthanked,
someone will stay their hand from uprooting it
if for nothing else than the fact that I
am such an unordinary sigh, and let me have
my dandelion

The Problem With Believing in the Return of God

The problem with believing in the return of God

hinging on the end of the present earth

is that it permits complacency.
It allows you

to throw up your hands when things seem impossible.
It distracts you with the superficial--feeding the poor,
helping the sick--
you spend your life cursing and
vainly hacking at the growth above the ground,
while ignoring the roots.

When you say: "Thank God the Lord is coming back."

It takes away the weight of your responsibility 

To society,

To participate in society,

To try to make the world a better place,

Because you believe you are not of this world

And that this world must end

You have no investment in laboring to preserve it

Or to improve it.

Dear Baby That May Never Be Born

Dear baby that may never be born,
Today your mother reached her six month remission mark.
I guess for some that's a victory,
but for me I just think, "That's six months less than I had before."
To be truthful, I'm anxious about the wisdom of my choices.

I don't know if you would be proud of me
for what I've done these past six months.
I've passed the NCLEX
I'm working now.
Trying to carve out a moment here and there for myself.
Trying to find someone--a good someone, an honorable someone
with whom to make you.
I'm not making much headway in that department, for many reasons,
the foremost of which is, I'm not sure it would be fair to make you
if I have to leave you so soon.
The second is, I'm a wimp.
Being vulnerable is hard.
So instead most of my days are spent working,
spending my life force
keeping others alive.
It's more than a little ironic, I know.
And every day I come home exhausted and beat up,
and I know that I've already gotten sucked into purely surviving.

I guess that's what this will always be.  Surviving.
We've made it an ugly word in this culture--
turned our noses up as if surviving wasn't worth surviving for--
As if living were somehow different.

But that's what it's always been about--
surviving long enough to have you
to make you, to teach you, to help you for as long as I can.

And that's why I'm writing this--
just in case you are born--
if I die before you can understand the things I need to
instill inside of you
the principles and beliefs you will need
to survive.

It hasn't been what I hope it would be.
I haven't changed the world.
I tried.
I'm still trying--
trying to live responsibly, to live ethically, to live gracefully.
I thought I would have more time to have a bigger impact
that I would have more time
to climb, to get the degrees
to position myself in circles where my voice
could bring about change for the betterment of society.

I thought I would have more time.
That's the first thing I want to teach you: There isn't enough time.

So play.  Play hard.  Daydream intently.
Sing with all your might.
Dance everywhere, all the time.
Sleep well.  Nap while you can.
The time will soon come where sleep will elude you.
Where you'll feel your mind burning,
aching for a break
and you won't have the luxury of stopping.

No one told me, when I was a child,
that I thought I had more time than I actually did.
You don't have as much time as you think you do, my darling.
I'm sorry to tell you that truth so young,
but I think it's a truth that you need to know so you can
execute your plans.

The second thing is: Surviving is a contradiction.
There will be people who tell you to follow your dreams no matter what.
And other will tell you that dreams are impractical and you need a job.
Both sides will make you feel guilty--fuck 'em.
This life is a Gordian knot.
Adults spend their entire lives trying to tell kids
"Ignore the nay-sayers and follow your dreams!"
only to have reality crush them with the necessity of paying bills.
There will be times when you feel like your life is a series of dead ends
and Penrose triangles.
There will be times when the uncertainty is paralyzing.
Breathe.  You'll get through the transition.
You have to.
Do what you must.
There is no shame in being realistic.
It doesn't mean you've failed.

The third is: It doesn't get easier.
Accept that you will always be doing at least two things at a time.
In this world, you have to climb
and you have to fight at the same time.
You have to work to support yourself in the morning
and you have to keep learning and bettering yourself in the evening.
For the lucky few those two actions are synonymous.
For most people, they aren't.
Don't feel like you've failed if you're not lucky.
Sometimes this life won't give you the option of climbing up.
Move laterally.
Go down to go up.
Be like water.
Flow where there are openings.
Don't stagnate.

The fourth is: You are not entitled.
Don't hinge your dreams on the idea that
you're a temporarily inconvenienced,
soon-to-be millionaire.
Disabuse yourself of the idea that knowing the right people will open doors.
As the daughter of an immigrant with no connections
my experience is: you meet the right people by opening your own doors.
You make friends by holding it open for others.
If you wait for someone to open the door for you
you'll be stuck in one place for a long time.
Work hard, clean up after yourself,
say "please" and "thank you," and mean it.

In that same vein,
adults kept asking me what I wanted to be when I was a child--
as if I could possibly know that answer until after I've lived
and tried
and failed
and learned who I was and believed
and saw who I had become.
The world's most avoided truth is:
No one knows who they are or what they want to be
until it's too late.
Unfortunately, phones don't work in the afterlife.

Instead, ask yourself what you can do to better the world.
That's a question that actually has answers
you can work with in your lifetime.
If you do what is best for everyone,
you will have a better chance of living with yourself.
That's the fifth.

The sixth is: Be kind.
I'll say it again.
Be kind.
That includes being kind to yourself.

The seventh is: Don't take any shit that you don't want.
Don't confuse respect with subordination.
Fight back.

On the flip side: It's okay to stop fighting.
It's okay to change.
It's your choice.
It's your life.

A caveat to point seven:
There is a history of depression and suicide in your family.
There have been suicides in the last four generations of my father's family.
The last, your second cousin,
John, the son of your grandfather's sixth brother,
he OD'd.
I've tried, too--
frantic actions,
meticulous plans.
Get help.
Talk to people.
It's okay to lay down.
It's okay not to get up.
The fact that you're still there
means you've won.
Keep breathing.
And if the day comes where you must
do what you must,
know I understand.

Eight: Mistakes.

No matter what you did,

No matter how young or how old,

No matter how much of your life 

you dedicated to making that mistake

or practicing that mistake

or tangling yourself into that mistake,

let it go.  

Even if it was a fundamental part of your identity--

Let Go.

Don't cling to an idea that will drown you.

Following close behind mistakes is Failure.
It will happen.
Don't let the fear cripple you from moving,
from trying,
from fighting.
Fear is just a feeling.
You can drown it it,
or you can use it to propel you forward.
If you stop failing,
you've stopped living.
Every thing you've done in life
was once completely foreign to you.
The first time you tried to pick up your head,
the first time you tried to crawl,
to hold a toy,
to feed yourself,
to talk,
to walk,
you were a mess.
Failure is just a moment in life--
perhaps many, consecutive moments in life--
perhaps many times.
Sometimes you know it's going to be a disaster
before you even start.
It's okay.
Life is like that.
Take a breath.  You know how to recover.
You have known know to recover
since the moment you cried
coming into this world.
Cry.
Breathe.
Eat.
Sleep.
Wake up and keep going.
Failure is relative only if you compare yourself to someone else.
Don't look.
Your life is about you.
Keep your head down, focus on your technique.
Anchor your goals to a noble cause,
and every stumble will just be that--
a stumble in a long battle
to better a world
that has turned for billions of years,
and will keep turning for billions of years
after I'm gone,
after you're gone,
after humans are gone.

On love:
I wish I could give you advice about love,
but I don't think that's something
that ever happens the same way twice.

I can tell you to critically think about your actions
while pursuing love--be fair, be generous, be honest,
be open-minded to people of all degrees of sexuality and genders.
Don't rush into relationships.
It is okay to be cautious.
Don't confuse being open-hearted with being fool-hardy.
Keep your eyes open.

Don't hang your hopes on any one person--
unless it is yourself.
Fall in love.
Fall out of love.
Fall in love again.
And when you're in between,
don't give into the fear of being alone.
Take that time for introspection.

If you find yourself
tempted to
fall in love with the damaged one
who has "so much potential"--
the one that the nurturing, tender
part of you wants to protect
and nurse back to health--
stop
step back and take a look at yourself.
Take in your reflection,
peel back your skin and look inside yourself.
(This is hard to do.  I know.
And I know, even with this warning
you will fall for
the spontaneous,
showering of attention,
and worship,
the brilliance,
reckless, flamboyant spirit, and the
deep, holy fucks that take you into the depths of your soul,
and the moods that drive you insane
and keep you coming back just another taste
of that sweet, honeyed passion laced with a little
bit of temper
and need, and dependency.
You just can't live without them.)
stop

Is loving that person a mal-adaptive act of self-love?
Are you with them because then it means
there is hope that someone will come
and rescue you with love?
That perhaps you appear as exotic to the world?
Do you want to be a brilliant star?

Practice true self-love.
Rescue yourself.
Exoticism shares a border with objectification.
Do not look to others to confirm your brilliance.
Build yourself deep and strong
with rebar of confidence in yourself
in cement pillars of truth and knowledge and introspection,
so that when the fully formed person
that will be a true partner arrives in your life
you will not be busy looking at yourself.
And you will have the capacity to look
deeply into them and recognize those qualities.

Challenge yourself to fall in love with the person,
not the body--trust me,
in the end of the day, we're all loose and saggy and mottled.
(Perhaps this piece of advice is futile warning for the youthful.)
One day, you may find that the awkward features
have become your most beautiful.

Speaking of bodies and aging:
STIs are a disease, just like diabetes, or lyme, or mono--
you don't want it,
but don't despise people who have it.
It's just a virus.
The longer you live, the more viruses you'll pick up.
Use protection.  Get tested often.
Get treated if you have it.
There is life after.
Have consensual sex as often as you'd like.
Don't let anyone shame you for being sexual,
or for choosing not to be.
Don't let anyone--any god--
shame you for being you.

But none of that is actual advice about love.
So, I'll just say: love yourself
as much as I love you.

Every Time I Think I'm Over It

Every time I think I'm over it
the fear bites me in the ass.
I've grown accustomed to the uncertainty
like a child, once terrified of her own shadow
now walks without so much as
a glance towards the pavement.

But the simplest things others take for granted--
the things that bring other people joy--
like
weighing myself on a scale
or
massaging a crick in my neck
can bring my life to a standstill
while I breathe in and out
and mentally run a scan of my body.
Is that weight loss because I've been working out?
Or is the cancer back?
Is that just a knot of tension?
Or is the cancer back?
Am I tired because I went to work today?
Or is the cancer back?
Is it harder to breathe because I took a rest day from running?
Or is the cancer back?

Being Poor and Sick in America

Being poor and sick in America
makes you intimately familiar with humiliation
and degradation
and frustration
and dehumanization.
You learn that your eyes, your ears,
your teeth, your heart, your lungs,
your hands, your feet, your knees,
your mind
are less valuable--
that somehow a simple question of
"Is that Medicaid?"
can make you feel less than a centimeter tall--
make you curl inside yourself in shame
like someone's focused a spotlight on your poverty
like you're some street urchin who accidentally fell through the roof
of the Golden Globes, and the clean shirt you're wearing
suddenly feels yellow'd with age,
and your naked face feels pocked and scarred
next to the Chanel and Givenchy,
except it's not style and fashion you're trying to compete for
but survival.