Cry In Between The Alphabet

My boyfriend Joe is playing a song we wrote together. I am a writer, first. I have always considered myself so; no matter what the pain in my back or my lack of appetite attests. In layman's terms, I'm probably fucked for life. I have about a year or so to live I am guessing, if I don't get a bone marrow transplant. The trick is you have to have a decent remission. This chemo has been so hard on me emotionally. There are steroids that reek havoc on your heart and soul and spirit. I had been in remission for seven years. My head is bald, my side hurts a hell of a lot, and I am just sad. This isn't the first time and the bone marrow is an iffy proposition. You live in constant fear.

The docs at Fox Chase will not do the bone marrow unless I have a good remission. Until the last cat scan, (I live in the prospect of cat scans) the doc said I was doing better. I still have to take pain killers for the pain on my side. The lymphoma is in my lung and while some has cleared up, it's still hanging out take pleasure in destroying me. It has been hard to be optimistic. The hope in the bone marrow keeps me hanging on. Hanging in. Whatever way you want to describe it. I am so afraid of this limbo period. My appetite is not the greatest so I know that I don't have that much improvement. It is weird to know this may be a document of my dying. But, comforting in a way, too, because on the My Space it doesn't seem the place for such serious talk. I don't know.

Don't trust me. I am an unreliable narrator. I know that everyone around me is having a hard time with this. But, when it has come down to it, it has only been my boyfriend Joe and my mom and Dad that have done the chemo treatments and everything else. I would give up today if not for Joe. He's a bedrock and puts up with my shit on a minute to minute basis. I wish this blog could be about where my writing is going. That's what it used to be about. I miss that. My focus is totally consumed with cancer. She is the third partner in the menage a trois of our lives, Joe says. Joe is an extremely talented poet who I dreamed to share a good life with. Now, we are just muddling through. Today, my parents are married 36 years. I may be lucky to get to 36. I am so sorrowing. Last year, on this date, Joe and I made love for the first time. He told me he loved me. I felt so blessed. I still feel blessed to have him by my side. I feel so awful it has to be this way. The drugs make me crazy and mean sometimes. Actually, a lot of the time. The doctor tells half truths. I have done the most today that I have done in weeks. I wrote a song and wrote a blog. I feel accomplished. Check Joe's work out. Joe Weil. I am half the poet in his and most certainly a quarter of the person. I'm just the gal unlucky enough to let cancer rear it's ugly disgusted pock marked head at me.

I could post poetry here; but I will probably just use this as a place to rant and rave, to complain, or to cry in between the alphabet. I long for a regular day. My jeans hang out on the line, but my side hurts miserably. Thanks for letting me complain here. Pray for a bone marrow for me. Pray for life. I have had a hard one. And if not, at least a happy death. I tell Joe I want to go before I get too bad. I saw a woman at the doctor's office, who, a few months before, was up and about, talking and walking, and so intelligent. At the beginning of the summer, she could barely hold up her head. Her son goes to Holy Cross. Her husband is well built and obviously has a good job. If that happens, well, I will not let that happen. Tonight, I am going to try to see my mentor read at my alma mater. It is over an hour ride and I know I will be exhausted. But, I have to stay in life somehow, even if it's only for bits and pieces, even if the type is broken, the words caught under my tongue.