I'm Literally Radioactive

A pretty pretty PET.
 (not mine)

As a deliberately happy person, recently diagnosed with terminal cancer, I sometimes teeter between a kind of prophylactic pessimism and its opposite, a crying out for hope. This is one of those times.

I had a PET scan today and as I write this I am literally radioactive. Under doctor's orders to not touch babies or pregnant women. I'm extending the courtesy to my family, of course and, well, pretty much everyone I encounter. Or would encounter, since I'm staying home.

The first rule of PET scans is that the prettier they are, the worse the news. My first scan was a lovely thing to watch. Like zipping through a cross-sectioned christmas tree in space. Splashes of color—intense pinks and blues and greens—identified the tumor and its metastatic progeny. And those fuckers were everywhere.

But that was taken in June, when I was first diagnosed. I'm feeling much better these days. I keep most of my food down, most of the time, which is a pleasant change. My weight is within five pounds of normal. So I'm optimistic.

Which poses a problem.

Most of the time I'm sure all of this cancer business is just something I imagined during a notably peculiar bout of indigestion. I feel silly that such a fuss is being made over me; I worry that I'm taking up a chemo chair that an actual sick person might need. It's called denial, and I'm finding it the most nourishing of the Kübler-Ross food groups.

But what if my PET christmas tree has grown more decorations? Or worse, what if my improvement is exactly what the doctor expected, and well within the confines of my shitty prognosis?
I'll let you know. Until then, I'm optimistic.

In happier news, I will be hosting guest bloggers on the topics of death and dying. If you have an essay, a piece of flash or short fiction, a published study or freshly baked cookies to share, contact me here. Actually, if you have slightly stale cookies, contact me here.

Incomplete dream application (1288)

That is, verbatim, the subject line of the email I just got from the Dream Foundation, an organization that grants wishes to people facing a premature end of life.

Momentarily, I wondered at the error code. How incomplete was my dream? Was it a Secret-esque oversight, where I'd failed to imagine my way to normal health and would now be punished―with untimely death―for my inability to manifest a proper future? Had not been positive enough to live? Some wise soul shared on Facebook that "We Are Never Dealt A Hand We Can't Play." I wanted to offer this wag to trade hands with me―I suspect hers is better than mine―but I was too daunted by her complete lack of self-awareness to try.

Then of course I realized my dream wasn't actually to stick around for a normal lifespan--I'm not an idiot--but to simply do something nice for my kids. Take them on a nice cancer-perq-funded dream trip.

But dreams are limited and applications can be denied, so I'll say no more about it unless something good comes about. Completing that dream application now...

You are very, very, very angry

You, are angry. You have never, in fact, been angrier in your life. You're angry at the elderly, for their thirty extra years. You're angry at the bitter, for their wasted time. You're angry at the heedless, who complain in front of you about their lives.

Tanya smash

You are angry at the future, for going on without you.

You are angry at your husband, for his inability to understand, for his every wasted word, for his getting to go on after you're gone. Your husband is angry. You are angry at his anger.

You are angry at your children, for needing you far beyond however long you can promise to be there for them. You are angry because these promises, the daily, mundane promises of parenthood, are specifically denied you.

You are angry at your mother, who seems to be coping through an artful blend of denial and absence. You are angry at yourself for behaving the same way.

You are angry at everything, but most of all, you are angry at yourself. You are furious, in fact, to the point of clenched-fisted, nails-dug-in-palms, fitful paroxysms of self-loathing. You have always, always always! stopped just short of fulfilling your own promise. And now this: The coup de gras. The moment you were going to step back into the workforce, start kicking into the kids' college funds, sell a book or two. Write a few more . . .

Smash! Terminal diagnosis. Smash! You're set to abandon your children, your husband, your mother. Your life! Smash.

You have always been a positive person—you consider happiness a choice and you've always chosen it—but there are limits to the logic of this practice. How positively can you spin an MFA you can't use, a trilogy you'll never finish, a life you'll never live?

Smashing.