I know that I am strong and valuable. Valuable in the sense that I have taken care of myself with pride. And by that I mean that I have curated my life with experiences and connections that feel good and are uplifting and that add value to my life. I truly care of living a meaningful life. I just wasn’t expecting what happened to happen. I didn’t know that other people and things impede on your path. It’s not fair. But I can’t control the lessons that I have to learn.

I envision myself bobbing my head, listening to funky music, violins alongside techno beats is my jam. I’m singing along to the lyrics. It’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining on me, on everyone. I can smell grass and there’s a humming that I can hear over my earphones of insects and lawnmowers. I stop and do a few twirls and shake my finger, reciting the words of the song that I am listening to. Kids are playing at the playground, the pool is open and I am thinking of taking a swim later. Everything seems in its place. It’s summer.

I lock eyes with the guy walking past me in the other direction. His eyes are brown and curious, like his. They look deep into my soul. He smiles, I smile. I feel seen. The woman watering her lawn a bit farther down gives me the one up, but smiles and says cute ‘fit. I’m on my way to the grocery store with my own bag to save the earth, and get something for dinner that I imagine the europeans eat. Wine, cheese, olives, French bread.

And then, a wrecking ball strikes me and throws me up in the air. And even though I can feel my blood start to collect in certain places, my ego, my arms, ribs, soul. There will surely be bruises. I’m still up in the air when ….. before I go any further, this is a metaphor. It didn’t happen. I’m afraid that if I continue, it will come true.

I once wrote a sad, made up story about a real cat that had kept coming to my apartment door. I didn’t know if he had a home, or where he came from, but I wrote a story about him being hit by car. It was for a writing class. The next week, it came true. I found him curled up in a bush next to the street. I called the humane society. I still feel horrible and responsible. But maybe I just knew. Empaths always know.

But the wrecking ball is a metaphor for the things that happen. Just when you get your groove, just when everything seems in its place, you get hit, unexpectedly, by something so random. Something you could never expect. And then another. How could I ever think that a wrecking ball would come down on me in the middle of summer, a perfect day, while I was wearing a cute outfit, jamming to a good song?! There’s so many amazing, little things that make up a perfect day and one just as small thing comes in and ruins it all. One thing. One small thing that ends up being big. Or two things. Or more.

A broken leg at a tubing hill, my ear bitten off by a dog when I ran up to him too fast to pet him, a lover who repeatedly gave me the silent treatment, a family that shunned me for living my life adventurously, a random colleague trying to pull me down into the abyss of their darkness, divorce, broken toes, and cancer. My therapist told me that some people do in fact live their lives untouched by random wrecking balls, to which I replied f*ck off.

I put tape on my broken toes, and I decorate my home with eclectic pillows, and whimsy, all to soothe my tender heart and tell myself, be good. Just be good and honest and loyal and, in the end, you will have had a meaningful life. But I get wrapped up in my despair, my self pity, comfy with soft tears streaming down my face. Yet, I set goals and prove to myself that I am worthy. Worthy of moving on, although I spiral. I have anxiety. I just want to be loved. I want something, anything, to tell me everything was worth it. I bought a body pillow to fill in until the real things comes.

I don’t even know what it means to be worthy. Of who? Of what? And who decided my fate? Or is this my karma? Is it because I was mad that I wasn’t invited to something and it hurt me and I reacted with pain and sorrow and avoidance? Was it that I breathed too hard? And ate too loud? Or was it my resting bitch face when I turned around to see who was calling my name? Was it because I tried to communicate my feelings and it came out like complaining? Is it because I try too hard to be good when maybe I should just be bad.

I’m always surprised by my resilience and the grace I give others. I will stay in a situation for a long time, just so I don’t have to risk experiencing another wrecking ball. Case in point, I still have not yet changed my doctors. I know Region’s Dr. would be great. I know my current doctor is um, okayish. He’s adequate. I hardly ever see him. I mainly see the physicians assistants and they’re great. They give me my injections and fill me up with fluid. My blood work has been promising. No-one still seems to get my name right. I still grumble.

Recently, I had a rash. Even though my oral chemo was doing the important work of killing off cancer cells inside me, it had caught up to outside of me and I eventually became covered in hives. I had to stop the medication to make sure that it was the culprit and it indeed was. A serious allergic reaction. After two weeks to let it calm down, which is usually how long it takes him, I am back on the meds and so far, so good.

I was originally supposed to have my biopsy in the beginning of March. Maybe I was nervous about my future, our future, maybe I made that resting bitch face, maybe I was scared, maybe I wasn’t in my right mind, but I ended up walking the three miles to the hospital. And only for them to tell me that they couldn’t put me “under” unless I had a driver to take me home. I protested, “I only live three miles away. I can walk.” They refused. “Ask someone, anyone.” It’s dehumanising to have to ask around for your own ride to get answers about your medical status. But when he said, “your cancer is not my problem,” that hurt!

Anyway, that day I was so proud of myself, because I had nothing left to lose. I was alone, crying, pleading. So, I tried at being bad and yelled back at them, “Fine, who cares if I have cancer.” I stomped right out and all the way home. Tears, so many more tears. Honestly, I didn’t think I had cancer. I really didn’t, so I was calling their bluff. Before this, they had tested me for every infection you can get, 100 tests maybe, asked me if I’d been to Africa or Russia.

They had tested my lung function, too. I’m happy to report that I made it to the 110th percentile, while most women my age make the 89th. I should get a star. I thought it was just protocol, the biopsy, but I was still nervous to go to the biopsy. Who wouldn’t be? I admit I was emotional. Like I said, there was a lot of gaslighting me into thinking ‘it was just residual nodules from a lung infection’ and I felt like I was in a whales mouth. I felt claustrophobic. I felt stuck. I was scared. I needed a hug. Helllloohohohohhhhhhh

I don’t know how to navigate this, I’m sorry. But we move on, forgive, adjust, and give loads of grace, right? A good person always does. Right? You just can’t predict how things will go or how you’ll be in a particular situation. I never see the grass as greener on the other side, I always appreciate what I have.

They rescheduled the biopsy for three weeks later. But, yet another wrecking ball whipped me out of my perfect scenery….