That’s Life

The lyrics to ‘That’s Life’ keep going round and around my head. It’s okay, I know what you are thinking, how trite. It’s trite because it is trite. Did Frank Sinatra really just pick himself up and get back in the race, every time he found himself flat on his face? Or is that just what he, and the thousands of imitators told themselves they should be doing as they drowned their sorrows in whiskey, killing more and more of their brain cells whilst emptying their wallets? That song makes it sound so easy. You have a bad time of it, but you just get up and fight again. At least I think that is the correct interpretation. I do not want to be dead by July. We’re in July.

I have always seen myself as fighter. The silent, mystery sort of fighter, but a fighter all the same. First time round, My Myeloma brought the best of that out of me. It was my badge of honour. Giving up, not fighting, collapsing, were not an option. Occasionally, I would bawl into my pillow and produce copious amounts if snot, but never did I ever really think that there was no point in attacking myeloma with all my might. When I could not get out of bed for days on end, the time I spent 90 minutes sweating through my clothes in Mamma Jones’s wet room as I tried to force out a week’s worth of faeces as my mouth repeatedly salivated tin, when I could not bend down to reach my oven. Never once, did I think there was no point in my trying to achieve what were, in essence, very limited goals, Back to the song, I did think it was worth a single fly, and so, there was absolutely no need for a big bird or the thoughts of me not trying. I just did. I just carried on. I’m not sure who I was racing, but I did not want to lose, so I got up. Again and again and again.

If you have not sensed it already, I do not currently feel like fighting. I do not feel like doing anything. Correction, I feel absolutely incapable of going anything. I feel alienated. In the last week, my sum of achievements have been extremely limited, and to make myself appear slightly better than I have been, I will include organising my weekly drugs as an achievement. I also got on a 45 minute train from London to Peterborough. That is it. It’s not a feeling I am used to, nor am I relishing in enjoyment from what others might consider to be relaxing. I am not answering my phone. My phone is a connection to people’s lives who are not bogged down in myeloma, guilt of having myeloma and the knowledge that there will be at least another two years of this.

Since Thursday morning, after I achieved my first night’s sleep since Saturday, I have slept and cried. Cried and slept. And flipped/reversed it again. I have been absolutely incapable of anything else or any other thought. I have attempted to watch the big shiny box at the end of my bed, but I just fall asleep, or I start crying. It is possible to do both, I have tried it. I have gone to bed telling myself that the next day will be an improvement, but it is not. I see no point in it. I see absolutely no point in any of this. Let us just be thankful that I continue to shower.

I am wholeheartedly angry with myself for my current mental state. A relapse, this relapse, was an inevitability. Earlier this week, I think I knew this and I felt like my stoicism that has been my good friend this two years at least had returned. I do not know what has changed, maybe it was missing my friend’s funeral because my body was too weak to walk. I currently have no strength to fight. I want to sleep. I want to go to sleep for a really long time until I can wake up, have this be over, or more realistically, be strong enough to get myself back in the race.

This was an inevitability, so I do not understand why I am so shocked. I do not understand why I am mourning so much. Most of all, I do not understand why I am allowing any head space to the thoughts that fighting is just a waste of time and that I might as well let it take over now for it will save more grief and money for everybody in the long run. I’m not ready to fight yet. I am not ready to see people tilt their heads at me and for me to be jealous at them for being able to tilt their heads. I do not feel strong enough to find a current middle ground to the life I had a month ago and the one I have now. I cannot manage the responsibilities.

It’s folly I tell you, folly. I do not want to die. Nor do I want to give up. I just haven’t quite worked out how I can do these things, when I feel like I have been kicked in the gut and had my life stolen away from me for the second time.

This is temporary. It has to be. That’s life, after all! I’m definitely myeloma’s puppet, pauper and pawn, right now.

I think there are people out there relying on me to find my strength. I am most definitely one of these people. I just really do not know if I am ready for that yet.

Can somebody else please change my tune please? I do not want a drunk somebody singing this to me, tie undone, as my only option.