Shmignity.

Eric told me that in the days leading to his father's funeral there was a family member who said over & over again: At least he died with dignity. At least he didn't have to wear a diaper.

I figured it for a pretty odd thing to say ONCE, never mind again & again, but people say strange things in the midst of grief. It made me sad -- made me think that the person who said it was the person who was worried about dignity. Folks are so afraid... afraid of what people think, afraid to live, and afraid to die.

Why should someone who's dying be concerned with dignity?

Initial cancer treatment was a sprint for me. I cowboyed my way through chemo & rads and emerged with enough sense and superstition to not call myself “cured”. I had some fun, loved up Eric, got myself a gig w/ summers off and tried not to look over my shoulder.

But my current cancer treatment is a marathon. When it’s not a slow drain, it’s a fast one. I'm just shy of two years into the 4-or-5 years of life that I was said to have “with luck”, and I spend one or two days out of each week thinking that living like this for a couple more years might not be lucky at all.

It's a weird thing to think and a weirder thing to drop into the least read blog in the sphere. I want to be alive. I love Eric, and I love my friends. Even today, on what was one of the most physically challenging days of my life (in the ickiness- mixed-with-acute-pain-arena), I laughed and had fun, some. Eric is handsome and good. I want to be here with him. I want life to be good.

But the gulf grows wider and my body feels worse. I haven't cared about dignity since I was an uptight 20 year old -- when I longed for it as something I couldn't seem to hold. Dignity is a consolation prize for people who are dealt bad hands. I'd rather own a chicken suit, and I do.

I want to feel good, and I can't.