Frustration when living on borrowed time

I’ve been thinking a lot about my laggard status and how I’m resistant to technological change. I like the old systems better, the monthly view on a calendar posted in the kitchen; the notebook in my purse to write someone’s number down. I even prefer walking to driving. This is probably why I’m likely to die with the septagenerians and octogenarians.

That sounds bleak, but I’ll tell you in my recent visit to the cancer ward of Kelowna General (BC Cancer Kelowna), everyone looked about that age. The only people who’ve offered support or kind words are also supposed to be closer to dying first, and I have been resentful of that. I hate to hear I look young for the same reason.

My life experience has been that the people I get along with or relate to; especially devoid of alcohol coursing through my veins, have all been 20 years my senior or students 15 years younger mostly nice to me out of teamwork & to leverage my world experience and willingness to take the brunt of the non-fun tasks for an easier good grade.

And I can’t say I’m done with transactional relationships, because I feel like all relationships start that way. I haven’t been able to sit in my grief, sadness or rage at this situation with anyone; let alone my mom, literally no one has understood me emotionally in my life (maybe my dad, but that’s a “stretch”). I’ve never been embraced for emoting because it’s too strong; I feel too much and it pours out of me in an alarming way. Rage, rage…

In the last week, I’ve been relatively productive with the help of my mom and many kind folks who fit me into their schedules unplanned, like the awesome head tax woman at H&R Block. I did manage to get my taxes done on time, give up on the creative endeavors like painting which I’m never going to be good enough at to enjoy; not for me. That mantra feels good, can’t be good at everything.

On the subject of being creative, I’ve even started to grapple with the fact that that is not my gift nor has it ever been. I don’t really like trying new ways to communicate. My studies at Okanagan College between 2017 and 2019 taught me I preferred studying economics, strategic management, and consumer behaviour to studying arts. Shakespeare really doesn’t matter and I hugely believe my Arts degree cuffed me to mediocrity and appreciation for things no one else cares about.

The eventful part of this last week was a recent trip to Kelowna for a PET scan. I booked a room at the Delta Grand with it’s lakeside parks and central location it’s been an aspiration of mine since 2017. I got to see the way that city has changed. It’s definitely not more accessible on foot. It’s too supportive of tourism. It’s shut the old souls out, like everywhere else.

It was otherwise modern and clean… totally aspirational. A disappointment that I couldn’t maximize my enjoyment of it with my current systems.

In a PET (positron emission tomography), they inject your fasted body with a sugar serum into your IV, then as that circulates through your blood and into your cells, they follow it with an injection of a radioactive dye that will light up all the cells of inflammation and infection in your body when read by the machine (subsequently a radiologist).

They use PETs as part of the staging process to determine if the cancer has spread into the organs, which in my case would mean it’s stage 4 melanoma. A cancer with a very low survival rate.

Part of the reason I think I’m going to die from this is because I am ready to go. I don’t derive much joy from anxiety producing social interaction; I prefer one on one. I don’t have many attachments to the physical world; I literally hate stuff that I didn’t pick for myself and don’t value goods or consumption much at all. I’d rather write than speak.

I firmly believe to beat cancer or other life threatening conditions, you have to have things dear to you in the physical realm to cling to. Children are a good substitute for passion. Things to pull you back from the ledge will win. Things to live for = winners in life.

As I’m coming to learn that I have to be my own navigator through this; I know I prefer walking to driving. My mom dropped me off at a street near the BC Cancer entrance so I could find it on foot without the help of Google Maps… the old fashioned way. I remembered the park from when I lived in Kelowna so I took a picture.

I can’t even live for treats or food. I’m not a foodie – I’m the farthest thing from it, I prefer bland and concentrated flavors. I’m very set in my ways and no one seems to care why, or what about that makes me tick. I’m readier to go this alone than to have to compromise myself for affection. A warm touch makes me recoil anyway, because I’d rather be heard.

I’ve been working on shedding the old systems which have made me sick. I’m starting to put information into my phone and into my computer directly so as not to have cheap fucking paper be all that is left to tell my story. My basket of goods and digital footprint probably tells my story better than anything I can describe anyway. I’m ready to throw it all the possessions out.

I loaned a book, call number 302 BRO, out of the Trail Public Library. I’m limiting my content consumption and focusing on establishing a new system of personal organizing that will be better for visitors at my home. If I’m lucky enough to ever entertain people, I might not die totally alone.

I’m trusting my intuition on the seriousness of this situation because all the signals have been implicit. When the world treats you with kid gloves, it’s bad. They’ve already set me up to see a radiation and medical oncologist. It’s safe to assume that’s protocol and I will need both radiation and chemo. If I refuse that treatment, I lose my benefits through work; unfortunately, one step at a time, I suppose.

Over the next 3 weeks, I’ll get the full picture. I’ll probably bus to Kelowna next time around. I’ll walk around wherever I can. I’ll use my privileges and abilities to my advantage where I can. I’ll try to replace old ID cards with my mother’s address for new ones with my own. I’ll host anyone who reaches out and is willing to visit. I’ll shed the use of her mailbox. I’ll become autonomous for the final time.