Halfway .

I'm blogging again because it's so important that people know what happens when you age 6o years in three months. A rare disease never disappears, even when it's cured.


It's been a while, hasn't it? It's been a while because I don't have time to "blog," and so many things in life are more important than internet-journaling. Even though I've been silent, my tumor is far from gone.

My tumor's gone is the sense that it has been extracted from my body. Ironically, now that it's gone, I'm feeling its effects at full force. The aftermath of a rare disease includes ups, downs, ups, downs, ups downs in every aspect of life.

It's March 2007, and I've reached a lot of halfway points with few resolutions. Two months ago, I couldn't decide whether to pursue radiation. Two months later, I am halfway through 33 treatments at Loma Linda. I spend half my "free time" at Loma Linda. The hospital has a close-knit community of prostate cancer patients. I am half their age. I am half of half their age. I spend half my free time with them, and they are half my friends... And halfway through treatment, I am half-reluctant to describe my condition as a "disease".

I'm also halfway through the semester and nearly halfway through college. I'm halfway between sad and happy... it's impossible to decide which one I want to be. I'm happy because I've met so many great people and I've found profound love in unexpected places. I've discovered within myself, a capability to love in ways that I've never experienced. I can't articulate what I've discovered; I can only stress that this love exists. I love life. I'm so thankful for being as lucky as I've been. Every day, I meet children with advanced forms of cancer, and I'm thankful to have met them-- they are so strong, heroic, and the best people I've ever encountered. I admire these children, I'm thankful to not be one of them. But I wish I could be as strong as them. I wish I could be strong enough to accept how good things are for me.

I'm so ashamed to say this--as lucky as I have been, it hasn't been good enough for me. Everything could have gone better. College could have been better. Treatment side effects could have been better. I could have been happier. In my head, I've reconciled how good I have it. I tell people that things couldn't be better. I tell people to be optimistic. I tell people that I'm so happy because things could have been worse. Surprise, I'm a hypocrite-- A happy-sad, spiteful-thankful, strong-weak, old-young, social-antisocial hypocrite.

I started updating my blog because it's hard for me to talk, but I need for people to listen. I don't request empathy or sympathy, but I need for people to understand what it's like to live a "normal" college student life with a rare disease. It's so isolating.

When I last updated this blog, I spent my free time sitting on my living room couch...alone. In the dark. In the last two months, I've been reintroduced to the "social" world, and I've realized that I'm no longer the "social" being that I once was.

I have no urge to party or shop or hang out or do what young people do. I feel like I've aged 60 years-- physically and emotionally-- in two months. Intellectually, I lack insight and retrospect to assess my experience. I'm old enough to have used a walker, but I'm still not old enough to give myself the "right" advice.

I feel like I've lost what might be my most important "social" year of school. I lost my first semester altogether. Now, I spend all my free time at the hospital or catching up with homework, etc. I came to college expecting profound friendships, ridiculous experiences, etc. I still want that, but I fell halfway behind everyone else.

I've come, gone, and returned without finding a niche or leaving my mark. I wonder... is this the rest of my life? Perpetual transience? Transient paradoxes?


This tumor does and does not exist. For forever, this tumor will and won't exist. I'm recovering, but will I ever be recovered?

What happens when you're 20, and you've aged 60 years?