On Monday, I returned to the pulmonologist for the latest in the ongoing saga of what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-lungs. We met to discuss CT scan #3, the one that I hoped would show that I'm healed. After weeks and weeks of antibiotics, breathing treatments, etc., I've felt pretty normal, except for some residual fatigue. Fortunately, the CT scan showed that I have improved a great deal; a lot of the crap in my lungs has cleared out. Yet there's still a lot of "debris" in there, especially in the left lobe, which is also still partly collapsed. (Ta-da! Fatigue.) And the scan also showed an even clearer picture of a damaged bronchial tube -- likely permanent damage that will require surgical correction at some point. What I didn't hear from my doc is what caused all of this. Is it a chronic condition? A physiologic abnormality? A treatable illness requiring a surgical correction then I'm in the clear? A disease? After three more months of treatment, we'll do another scan and talk about "options."
Now, look, I'm an optimistic person. Even if I were staring death in the face -- not that it's even remotely possible before I'm in my 90s based on my family history -- I'll believe I'm going to live until I'm gone. I am certain that I have a long and happy life ahead of me. But that said, I'm annoyed. I'm out of patience. I'm sick of being tired. I'm sick of not knowing what "it" is. I'm sick of not knowing my prognosis. I'm sick of wondering how they'll do surgery and how long I'll be out of commission and when can I get my life back? The one where I once hopped on my road bike and road the Foothill with Chris? I'd like it yesterday please. As the inimitable Alanis Morrisette sings, "I don't want to live on someday when my motto is last week."
But do you know what I'm sick of most of all? Other people. Not all of them -- just the rude ones.
Backing up, I am fortunate to have a lot of caring and supportive friends and a family who's a phone call away (and an airline flight cross-country, but they'd do it in a nanosecond if I needed it). But when you broaden that circle, you get a lot of people who say things like:
"But you don't look sick."
Usually that's offered in rebuttal after I've refused to sign onto the latest fundraiser/ charity drive/ raise-awareness-athon/ hopefest/ guiltfest/ mom-time-sink. And what do I end up saying in retort? "Thank you! I'm so glad I don't look ill. But I am, so leave me the eff alone." (OK, I don't really say that last part, but I think it.) I can't even keep on top of my current commitments -- many of which I shouldn't have made for a host of reasons, among which sickness is only part -- but I'm not taking on anything else. I don't look sick? I'm no proctologist, so take your a$#hole somewhere else.
And then there's my current favorite:
"At least it's not something worse." (For "something worse," insert "incurable" or "cancer" or "COPD" or "my grandma's sister's aunt's cousin's horrible condition that prevents her from leaving her iron lung in the worst hospital ever in Mexico.")
Usually, that one's offered by someone who really didn't want to talk with me about "it" anymore -- or wanted to tell me to quit whining already and get on with things. The problem is that I'm not a whiner, have never been a malingerer, and, well, am actually sick. The other problem is that nothing -- nothing -- from that list has been ruled out definitively, except for the cultures tested for in my bronchoscopy and asthma. There are a lot of things that are as bad as or worse than some forms of cancer. My lungs are scarred/scarring, and that's pretty effing bad. Life is not a card game in which cancer trumps all; and everybody knows somebody to whom something worse has happened. Believe me, I know; I just supported a bike ride in memory of a friend who died from skin cancer. He was 34 and left behind a two year-old daughter. He suffered -- and his family suffered -- more than I have. But I don't know my outlook yet, and, while I have every reason to believe it's good, it's not a competition. I can cry for him and still be sad that I don't know what's wrong with me yet. And I won't know for months. And sometimes, it's going to show that the "not knowing" is hard on me. So to those who say, "at least it's not [insert horrible thing]," I hope you're right. If you're wrong, though, I should be allowed to get all Marsellus Wallace on you.
For now, I'm thankful that I'm resilient, and I will let neither this sickness nor people -- who I presume to be well-meaning despite the interpretations above -- get the best of me. I am not my sickness, and my sickness is not me. I have a lot of good to do in this world, and, no, I won't look sick as I'm going out and doing it. I'll put on my best face and do what I do; there is no other self-indulgent option... except for this blog, I guess. So here I [end rant] -- and keep calm and carry on, as they say.
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