Tired today. Woke up late, slept through my chemo appointment (I was there, just zonked out on on of the infusion examination room bed for most of it), and now back at the office. The nurse asked me if I was going home to rest now and I told her nope, back to work. She seemed disappointed, but not as much as I was.
I wonder idly sometimes if some of these therapies would have worked better if I hadn’t had to work so hard or deal with so much drama and bullshit while dealing with them. After five years I’ve grown this tremendous “tumor of envy” if you will for people who get to just focus on this damned disease and living life, instead of pitying myself for my own situation. I feel like it’s made me bitter, at least to an extent. Like it’s taken away something. Energy I could have spent with my daughter, or on my marriage.
I’m afraid a lot more, now. Not going to get into that right now though.
This weekend I went with my wife and daughter to the Douglas County Fair. I grew up going to stuff like this as my parents rode horses, but it was Ariana’s first experience with 4H and all of the games and cheap rides. Her and I did a ride together, and then I gave the rest of the tickets to our friends so their daughter could do some with Ari. She won a pink translucent dolphin and had half a bag of cotton candy (mom’s limit) before we had to go. I bought her and her mother cowboy hats as well. I probably shouldn’t do things like that but every time she wants something I wonder if THIS is the thing she’ll remember. If someday she’ll sit in her room, quietly thinking about me and fondling that hat that no longer fits, remember something about me.
Such dark thoughts to have. People don’t realize when it’s not a reality for them what this existence is really like. They think they do, with their useless platitudes and empty gestures and comments. They have no idea, none.
My feel were killing me most of the time at the Fair, but I went anyway knowing they would. Maybe that’s Myeloma, at least to me. A decision … whether to participate, regardless of the number of crosses on your back and their weight, or whether to skip living. Most of this illness I’ve chosen the selfish route, to skip it, but as I come to what I feel like is the end (or at least more of the end than it used to feel like) I feel less inclined to skip things. I realize how much I’ve missed, and damn myself for it. I had a choice, and I chose wrong. Now I fight just so that my daughter remembers.
I’m tired. And it’s a tired that never ends.