Bad-Ass.

This is the conclusion of my malady trilogy. This is not because I am healthy.

The other day I was particularly colorful which is unusual, as I mostly prefer somber attire. Embellishments and adornments included multi-colored Converse All-Stars, and beneath a black t-shirt, a long-sleeved striped crewneck worthy of Linus van Pelt, and a purple bandana harnessing my mane. A gentleman next to me at the gas pumps engaged in conversation about the weather. It was the perfect autumn day. He mentioned that the forecast predicted snow soon. I responded, “I will take that snow and I will like it. Today is perfection.” For that proclamation, I got a hearty, “Right on, girl!” I thought, ‘There’s a bit of the old Deb. Sickly and shaken but in the moment.’ When I drove away, I told myself I earned a gold star. Maybe even a gold star with sprinkles.

Following the appointment with the neurologist, the week continued to be a footslogger. At the hospital that same day, I had twenty vials of blood drawn. For this, I was rewarded with a morsel-size granola bar and a wee plastic container of apple juice. “Really?” I asked. The nurse said nothing but appeared to be apologetic. I continued, “That’s it? I was hoping for a sticker, maybe something saying, ‘I was severely phlebotomized today.’ No such luck, huh?” Additionally, the results of the MRI showed more lesions were on my brain, one in the portion of the skull that controls movement on the right side. Drat, but it explained the partial paralysis. And just for kicks, one of the blood tests indicated that my white blood cell count was three times what it should be. Generally when that happens, the patient is fighting a horrendous infection or may have leukemia. Once again I was asked by a physician if I wanted to be hospitalized. Once again I declined, because I don’t like the act of smoking to be hard.

Upon my return home, I called my closest friend, Lara, and asked her if I was one of the toughest broads ever or too stupid to know how sick I really am. She laughed, more at me than with me. “How about both?” she asked. She and I have always dreamt of sitting in rocking chairs on a porch when we are old and batty. All the local children would gather because they could finger-paint the porch and we two old biddies always had something weird and good, like a cauldron filled to the rim with nougat. No matter the relationships that have come and gone, changes in jobs and residences, whether fifteen or 5500 miles apart (she up and moved to Greece once), we always take care of the other, we are always there for the other. I often describe her as my heart. This is representative in both physiological and psychological manners: she is a source of calm for me, steadying my internal pacing so that I neither combust nor cease; also, she can cut past the bullshit into the vital source of my emotions, disallowing my own intentions to elude and hedge difficult issues. She has suffered with me through the MS and the new test results were frightening to us both. Often as my medical issues increase in severity and complexity, I feel assured others are wearisome just as I am enervated. How often can or should I answer, “Like shit,” to the question, “How are you feeling?” Sometimes I will respond, “Fine,” but my pallid complexion and darkened hollows under my eyes defy my best attempt at a sassy grin. Still, my health has become predominant, no longer a stretch or a spell, but rather what feels like an extended term of doom. At times, I am frustrated by the tedium of my health and also perturbed that others are bored. Unfortunately, I don’t know what to tell people. I didn’t bake the most delicious casserole the other day; I had vials of blood drawn. My doctor didn’t say, “Tip-top shape, buckaroo!” My doctor wanted to hospitalize me. When you are diseased, it doesn’t stop; one gets a breather from time to time but that’s all. Am I bitter occasionally? Of course I am. Just because I normally have a positive outlook on life doesn’t mean I spend my spare moments chirping out, “Good Ship Lollipop.” I’m optimistic not a fuckhead. I’m cheerful not retarded. Truth be told, I’m concerned about decaying in a pathological ennui. I tell myself that this is an unpleasant juncture and soon enough I will return to stories and drawings and music and laughter. I envision it. Once again, I think, I will pluck mystical moments from the air, this time clutching and snatching intrepidity from a zephyr and this will invigorate my body, its veins and organs and bones awash with my will, internal whitecap waves that decontaminate, lave, and gussy up. I sometimes fall asleep with these thoughts, content that when I awake, the internal blight will have been vanquished.

I have never been particularly fond of projecting; if one was to contemplate all the “what-ifs” in the world, she would essentially give up on this life. With the mere possibility of leukemia, I did allow a few questions to filter through my lesioned brain. “Could I handle another major disease?” “Will I feel like hell for the remainder of my life?” “How will I possibly do everything I want to do?” My frustration was based upon the malaise and the relentless wasting, not an anxious individualized Armageddon. My mind, weary and feeble as it is, takes me to the absurd quickly, mocking my own unanswerable questions, countering serious possibilities with questions such as, “What if my brain split open and tiny little lemurs marched out while ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ played in the background?” and, “What if my white blood cell count isn’t really triple the norm but actually completely normal because they didn’t take into account my superhero status?” and, “I’m feeling really sick. I wonder if I can do a handstand.” For clarification, it is not that I avoid “the big questions” in life, not at all. Frequently I excogitate and cerebrate and marvel and puzzle over both the complexity and the simplicity of humanity. But, the thing is: I have an unrestrained ebullience for this life. This life. When something mitigates that, stabs and slices at that joy, I am wounded and weakened. Life, to me, is magical; it’s enchanting, evanescent moments, gone with an eye blink. So many people miss that; they just don’t get it. Do you know what kinds of people annoy the living hell out of me? The ones who are always annoyed. So, you’re irritated that the doctor had to change your appointment because of an emergency? Be glad you’re not the emergency, you piss-ant. And the waitress got your order wrong on a short-staffed Saturday night but corrected it within minutes? Cry me a river. And, I’m sorry, what kind of day did you have that I won’t believe? The retail clerk wouldn’t accept your return from six months ago? And your babysitter puked and had to go home? And your dog brought mud into the house? Boo-fucking-hoo. Lots of people have it better and many have it worse. That’s not the point. The point is: we all have a choice; we can snivel and be defeated or we can be bad-asses, striding bold and confident, capturing ephemeron in our remembrance as children clutch flower petals and ladybugs in their pockets. We can be enchanted.

Despite my elevated enthusiasm for life, I learned that I probably shouldn’t have been operating vehicles and machinery on tons of medication and a few pints low on plasma. I spent a good portion of my time on the road admiring the magical glucose showcase of autumn leaves, staring dreamily into the wispy stria of contrails and cirrus clouds against a blue sky of Olympian pageantry, and admiring sunshine that demands eye crinkles, teary lashes and maybe even permanent visual impairment. How could I not? It was the perfect autumn day. I was captivated because it was magic.

This is the conclusion of the malady trilogy not because I am healthy. It is because I am going back to being a bad-ass.