The world absolved of thinking first.

I have every right to feel sorry for myself. I am a 43 year old woman with a great marriage, 2 beautiful kids and a satisfying career and I am dying. What does it mean to be dying? Despite having cancer for almost 6 years I've never given the question much thought. There is the philosophical loss of hope, resignation, anger, self pity. All of that is to be expected. But what does it feel like to be dying?

Obviously it is different for everyone. For me it is a slow ebb of my health. Those moments free of discomfort become fewer and fewer. I'm having a pretty good day today. In fact, compared to some I am quite healthy and energetic. In the last few months however, I feel as though the fabric of my well being has been jabbed with a pencil point in several places. I am rarely without some kind of gastrointestinal issue. From the radiation I am bloated or cramping or having diarrhea or reflux. I have paroxysms in my rectum as the stored up mucus tinged with blood, smelling just like old mucus with blood in it would smell, decides it must exit my body whether I can make it to a bathroom or not. This occurs several times a day. I urinate constantly. I have not been dry for over 60 seconds in months. I urinate, take a shower, urinate again and get dressed. As I lean forward to pull on my pants I feel about a teaspoon full leak out. Where the hell is it coming from? I have learned never, ever to be without a pad. I carry them everywhere, in my purse, my knitting bag, in my desk, in my car. I have lost all modesty and care not one little bit who sees them.

My colostomy has made some of the digestive issues easier. I can see a patient while having diarrhea. It brings multi-tasking to a new level. I hate changing the appliance. If I'm not careful liquid poo will shoot out with no warning whatsoever. At least it's not like real poop with that special aroma. It's more like digested stuff, only marginally better when I reflexively put my hands down to catch it before it spatters all over the bathroom floor.

Lately the skin around my ostomy has been a problem with irritation and bleeding. Here's the point of this whole thing. I called the medical supply place for some suggestions and yes, I whined a little. The woman helping me admonished me, "now, now! You're still here!"

That's just great. I shouldn't feel bad about all this crap; I shouldn't complain that I will never truly feel healthy ever again; I shouldn't pity myself because I have started to fall into the abyss of death because I'M NOT DEAD YET?

Who's day was made better by that statement?

That's all I've got for now.

Dr. Bif