“At least you’re lucky to be alive.”
“You should feel better that you get any medications at all.”
“You should be grateful for the air in your lungs.”
“You’re lucky you have a roof over you head and food on the table.”
“You would feel better if you pushed through the pain.”
“If you lost the extra weight, you wouldn’t be as sick.”
NO, NOT REALLY.
This morning I woke in just enough time for my head to make it to the toilet. As I watched the yellow bile expel from my body, in painfully violent waves I might add, I can promise you that I wasn’t thinking “I’m grateful”.
When I looked into the mirror after the fact and saw my paled skin, the dark circles under my eyes from painful sleepless nights, my double chin and fat cheeks known in the medical world as Cushingoid, a result of long-term steroid use; I did not think “I’m lucky to be on these medications” and “surely if I went on a diet I’d be cured in no time”.
I wonder if people in my life actually realise that fact, or accept it at all.
This week I found out that my insurance company decided to no longer pay for my treatment plan. A plan that my doctor argued was integral in my survival and chances of remission. When I called the company angrily to ask why, I was given a lame and generic answer, their statements only divulging that they deemed my treatment “expensive”.
So what I hear you saying is that my life isn’t worth the treatment that will save it? Gee, thanks Big Pharm, kinda always thought you needed LIVE patients to make money off of.
Do I sound angry?
It’s probably because I am.
I am so tired of being in pain.
Of waking up every morning wondering what my body has in store for me. Will I be nauseated and vomiting? Will I be in so much pain that I can’t move?
Do I feel lucky?
No, not really.
I feel anger. Rage. Helplessness.
I feel alone in a sea of individuals who think they know exactly what I’m going through.
Every day I hurt.
Every day I cry.
You think you know what it’s like.
No, not really.