tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87107380878992055602024-02-06T19:03:34.582-08:00Confessions of a Disgruntled 20-Something Cancer SurvivorJessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-85443719129951257532019-08-16T06:21:00.004-07:002019-08-16T06:21:58.523-07:00New post!Hi All!<br />
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I just wanted to share a link to my website where you can find more of my current writing! I posted a brand spankin’ new entry yesterday! <a href="https://itsmypardee.com/2019/08/15/it-kinda-sounds-like-i-might-be-strange/">PLEASE CHECK IT OUT!</a><br />
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<3Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-786063273424922352018-09-01T12:35:00.002-07:002018-09-01T13:19:57.555-07:00To the Big Green Bedroom<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Last weekend I went home to Syracuse for the first time in a while--3 months to be exact. For someone who likes to get home at least once a month, I felt like I hadn't been home in a year.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">There were many things I was looking forward to on my trip: the wedding of a great high school friend, and the reunion with many other high school friends that went along with it. My little white dog who I swear saved my life. My goofy now-both-retired parents whose banter and teasing of one another is both entertaining and exhausting. My sister and her girlfriend who digs Phantom of the Opera </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">(and Jackie's own personal renditions of Music of the Night). </i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">The big pool with the little waterfall. Rainbow Milk Bar at the Fair.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Lots of things to look forward to.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">But what actually weighed most heavily on my mind going into Syracuse on the obviously-late-and-dysfunctional Greyhound bus was a confrontation between me and my big green bedroom. No longer a big green bedroom. No longer mine.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">But in all honesty it had never been "mine". It was always "hers": Pre 2009 Jesse. </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Dramatic? Maybe. But true? Oh yes.</i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">And I'd been avoiding her and that big green room every day since I returned home from my biopsy.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">There were drawers and books and bins in that room that had not been opened, not been TOUCHED since a 17 year old with long brown hair closed them up after a wind ensemble concert, a dance class, after finishing her homework, or after watching Obama defeat McCain on TV. So when my 22 year old sister asked me very gingerly, very carefully in June of this year if she could have my old room when she moved back, I begged her, "Please, Jackie, for the love of God. Please do something with that mausoleum. Take it."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Indeed, it was a mausoleum and was treated as such. During treatment I couldn't bear to be in there and stayed in my mother's room. If I wasn't in her bed drinking my Miralax and watching </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Desperate Housewives,</i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> I was on the couch downstairs eating barbecue chips and watching reality TV. Post-cancer I would come home from college or from New York City and sleep on the couch. My luggage would live on the floor in the living room until my mom or dad finally begged me to get my shit out of the way because they were tired of finding bras in the couch cushions and tripping over boots.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">So I would reluctantly drag my bags up the stairs to the big green mausoleum and drop them on the big green carpet and then duck the f**k out as fast as I could. If I needed to maneuver the dresser drawers full of clothes, I did so strategically and nimbly--you'd never know if you were going to find an old love letter in the sock drawer, or come across that depressing bottle of Nautica cologne again that your ex-boyfriend left behind. You might find the Thoroughly Modern Millie T-Shirt from Junior year or the ugly tye-dyed tank top from Sophomore year marching band with the sloppily written names of the flute players. Best to get in and get out quickly.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">And I know what you might be thinking. You might be thinking </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">C'mon, now, Jesse. We all grow up. We all move out. We all come home and find our old things.</i><br />
<i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">But here's the thing. Jesse with the long, brown hair and the nose too big for her face didn't grow up and come back to find these things. She left her big green bedroom on December 17th, 2008 has bin a snowstorm and came back that evening with a giant patch on her back from a manual biopsy needle and the parting words, "We'll be in touch. Merry Christmas!"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">She couldn't go back in that room. And she just became more different day by day. Skinnier. Balder. Sicker. Angrier. Then fatter. Even sicker. Even Angrier. So, so angry.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Well, she just about disappeared. And the big green room is--was--the only evidence that she ever existed.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Every once in a while as the years passed, I would feel courageous and open up the card that still sat on the vanity gathering dust. It had lily pads and a pink flower on the front. Inside were messages from my mom and dad congratulating me on the All-State concert at the beginning of December 2008. I'd played oboe/english horn in the band that year, and sang in the chorus the year before. My mom had written how proud she was, and how she could never have imagined when she sang in the All-State concert decades before that her own daughter would be there one day with her own musical talents.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">If my nerve was steady and strong, I could even open up the little drawer beneath the card and find the little miniature oboe they'd given me along with it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">But that was a rare nerve.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">"Please get rid of the mausoleum. All of it."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">With the exception of a Calvin Klein sweatshirt, I told my mom and dad it could all go. Everything. The notes, the clothes, the posters, the band T-Shirts, the tiny wallet senior photos I'd traded and collected amongst my friends. Make it all disappear.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I was ready when I came home last week. I was ready for relief. And I got it. The room is unrecognizable. The green carpet was ripped up and the hardwood floors repaired and smoothed over. The furniture is brand new, the walls painted.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">The green room is gone.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">My mom, dad, and sister did an incredible job. Jackie's new room is stunning, and my mom carefully painted and redecorated Jackie's old room. She made it into a comfy, cozy little place for me to stay when I'm home. For me to leave my luggage so my bras aren't found in the couch cushions.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I am so, so grateful to them for turning the mausoleum into something brand new--brighter, and happier. I'm not even mad that they forgot to save the Calvin Klein sweatshirt.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Since returning to the city, it's hit me, though. She's really gone. I guess, subconsciously, knowing that big green room remained there, untouched--it made it easier to hold on to...something. I dunno. It made it easier </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">not </i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">to mourn that little high school kid.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">You mourn a lot of things in battling cancer. But it always felt silly to mourn the person I used to be--for many reasons. It feels melodramatic, and useless. Nothing can be changed. What happened happened...but I still tear up writing this knowing that I can't remember what it felt like to </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">not </i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">have had cancer. What was I like? What did I love? What did I think about? Broadway? Grades? Dancing? Boys? I remember being very concerned that my tapping wasn't up to par--after all, I intended on heading to college a triple threat. I forced myself to endure the advanced tap class at the dance studio even though I was the worst one. I loved playing my instruments more than I ever let on to anyone, even my teachers. I loved falling asleep with my cat, listening to </span><i style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Family Guy</i><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> on the tiny TV in the big green bedroom.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">What did I fear, then? What could I have done? Who would I be? Where would I be?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">The answers don't exist because the questions are pointless. But they arise in my brain regardless.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">I am quite happy with who I am today. Truly. I have my flaws as we all do. But, to come full circle, who I am today actually began on that biopsy table, right after I left that bedroom as old Jesse. Long, brown hair Jesse feared the Gardasil vaccine and passed out at the idea of having blood drawn. Short, blonde Jesse emerged for the first time when the doc said "if you want to wait to schedule an appointment to be put under in a routine biop--" She cut him right off and said "do it now. If we are doing this we're doing it right the f**k now."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">To this day I'm not exactly sure where those balls came from.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">You never actually know what you're capable of until--often out of the blue--you happen to show yourself. I think of that moment whenever I have doubts about my worth. My value. My capabilities. My character. Who I am or who I could have been. Short blonde manual biopsy Jesse said "do it right now."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">She's cool. Highly recommend her. She's somebody who used to care a whole lot about overcoming her adversities by being successful. By making it big. But now, she's someone who tries to figure out, </span><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">every night as she falls asleep, where she could've been more patient, more understanding or more helpful the previous day.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">But you should ask her about the big green bedroom sometime, and the girl who used to live in it.</span><br />
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<b style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><u>I don't wan't to forget her, completely.</u></b><span style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"></span><br />
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<br style="background-color: #fff0f2; color: #201f20; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-33997722385271794682017-06-14T10:49:00.003-07:002017-06-14T10:49:43.513-07:00I'm Writing A New Blog<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi People!!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's been quite a while since I've written in this blog, and I'm sorry for that. But I've actually started a new blog that I'd love for all of you to check out. It's not survivorship-centered. Just more me shooting the shit about my neurotic behavior/thoughts/life. I'm so grateful to everyone who made this blog a success and I'd love for you all to follow me on to the next adventure :)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://amorepointlessone.blogspot.com</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love Always,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jess</span><br />
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<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-67855111659937760282016-03-24T21:11:00.001-07:002016-04-07T05:21:22.154-07:00Cancer and MeIt is March 25, and today is my 25th birthday and the day Jesus died (even though this website says its Thursday, March 24, because they are on Pacific time which is stupid, so there).<br />
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The two facts are not at all synonymous, but I feel that I cannot address one without addressing the other. </div>
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I am only here to talk about the first, as the details surrounding the second are largely unkown to me.</div>
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I have officially begun my quarter-life crisis. In part because my aging process has been a bit wonky. Let me break it down for you:</div>
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Jesse Pardee is, at present, 25 years, 0 days old.</div>
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Jesse Pardee is, of mind, 23 years, 0 days old (due to health pause)</div>
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Jesse Pardee is, of body, 56 years, 0 days old (due to chemo/cancer havoc)</div>
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You can see where it might get a little hairy (no cancer pun intended).</div>
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But my crisis is mainly due to the fact that I don't quite know who I am and where this momentous illness fits...or will ever fit, in my life. And I still don't quite know how it's changed me. Over the past few weeks I've been re-reading these blog posts and cringing at what I must have thought at the time was cheeky, or witty, or something. "Cutting edge", <b>bolded statements</b>, excessive swearing.</div>
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I also marvel at how earnestly I believed that people were interested in my life. The blog, in all sincerity, was a simple writing project of sorts. I guess the true intention was never to really deal with or to think through the experience, which is likely why I got so sick of writing on it. I'd chosen the topic of my cancer because it was something unique that I could talk about. I wanted to write about something that would stand out among the things that other people my age were writing and blogging. I guess you could say I played the cancer card: a right which, whether I like it or not, I have duly and irrevocably earned.</div>
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These past weeks, approaching my 25th birthday, I began to feel differently about my life. I look back on its first quarter--"quarter" very likely being generous in reference to my time on earth--and realize that my biggest accomplishment is beating cancer. Which, ya know, is great and dandy and all. It's just not what I wanted or pictured for myself. Obviously. That's not the kind of "win" I'd hoped for.</div>
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And then I realize that "win" is like, the biggest understatement. I faced death. I watched others--mostly children who will never have a "quarter-life crisis"--fall all around me. Gone.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My quarter-life "win" was not landing a dream job, or getting married, or having a child, or even having money to pay the bills--which in New York City is more like a monthly "win". And not that those things aren't huge accomplishments, and wonderful for people who achieve them within the first 25 years of their life. But my quarter-life "win" was in a battle for my life. Survival against a very deadly disease. "Malignant tumor" is the scariest phrase you'll ever hear come out of a doctors mouth besides "rectal exam". </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So at 25 years old, why is my triumph and survival not something that makes me proud? I hate to say it, but at times it really makes me embarrassed or even ashamed, and I couldn't tell you why.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So in September I started regularly seeing a therapist who specializes in trauma and PTSD. Through this I've realized that I never truly allowed myself to look back on that year of my life and really bring that chapter to a sensible conclusion. Instead, the memories replay in my dreams, lurk in my sub-conscious, and hold me back. And, for the most part, I let them. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
They make me feel as though I'm living on borrowed time, and instead of motivating me to live in the moment, I get scared. Many times I look in the mirror and see a coward. A girl who sits in the back seat while the trauma drives her around and makes all the decisions. Every light is yellow or red and everywhere she goes is a hazard zone.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the past month, my therapist has begun EMDR treatments. You can look it up, because God knows on this "good-est" of Fridays that I cannot explain it here. It's essentially a semi-hypnotic re-working and re-living of traumatic events in order to find some closure. Because although in many ways, I'm doing quite well, my cancer is still driving the bus.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
25 will hopefully be a year of discovery and recovery. I'm learning that post-cancer Jesse is a lot different from pre-cancer Jesse, and for the first time I'm allowing that to be okay. Pre-cancer, I dreamed of being on Broadway, and thought that that was the only thing that could make me happy or make me feel successful. Immediately post-cancer, I forced myself to pick up right where I left off--unaware, or unwilling to see that perhaps things were different now. Perhaps my dreams have changed or are changing. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Am I done auditioning in NYC? No.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Am I positive it's the right life for me? No.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Do I now think that there are other things that will bring me happiness? Yes, 100%. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And whether or not I decide I still want this or not, I think that's a healthy attitude to have.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And "healthy" is what I'm trying to put at the forefront right now. When I moved here, I shoved the cancer baggage to the back of my mind, telling myself I should be over it by now--unaware that it was still in control. So now I begin the next year of my life putting my health first. I am continuing therapy and EMDR. I am still living in New York City, loving this city, loving the cozy spot in Washington Heights that I share with Matt. Maybe some auditions here and there. Hopefully more classes. Maybe even some writing workshops. Maybe I'll even learn to write about something other than this black cancer plague! I know I'd like to. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'd like to close the cancer chapter. I'd like to make it an important chapter in my life that I glance at from time to time--but no more daily re-livings. I'd like to get to a point where the dreams stop, and I don't wake up from sleep with the idea that I have to get ready for first period wind ensemble because they've sent me back to high school to make up for the missed time.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'd like to stop thinking about the missed time and think about the time to come--however much or however little that is.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Be well.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Jesse<br />
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-83359475265190824472014-11-12T22:07:00.001-08:002014-11-13T13:08:58.885-08:00Crows and ThingsWhen I was very young I picked up a dead bird.<br />
<br />
I don't really know why I picked up a dead bird.<br />
<br />
I can speculate as to why I picked up a dead bird. I saw it there near this big patch of rocks by my driveway which I had cleverly called "the rock pond." I was playing a game I called "Rebecca" in which you pretend you are a girl named Rebecca and essentially that is how you play the game "Rebecca."<br />
<br />
I digress.<br />
<br />
So I'm playing the game "Rebecca" and Rebecca notices a stark black "thing" at the edge of the rock pond near the telephone pole (near a telephone pole no less!)<br />
NOTE: I am going back to first person now. I just want it to be clear that I am Rebecca and Rebecca is me and we are one and the same according to the rules of Rebecca.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I notice this black thing and just casually make my way over to it and realize it is this big ole black crow totally frozen with rigor-mortis, belly up.<br />
<br />
Disgusting right? Well nothing is too disgusting for Rebecca. Who is me.<br />
<br />
I'd never seen anything dead before, and don't think I actually knew what "dead" meant. The word didnt exist to me yet...but this bird...I knew it wasn't fake...a Halloween decoration or a toy. To me it was just a bird that was no longer living. I dunno what it was doing.<br />
<br />
I had no concept of death at this point in my life. To me this crow was not dead. It was just not alive. It was not breathing or cawing or flying or being actively ugly rather than passively ugly.<br />
<br />
For whatever reason, I knew I had to pick it up. I brought it up the steps of the porch to show my dad who I instinctively knew would yell at me. But I strutted down the breezeway like I was hot shit and shouted for my dad to "come look at the stick I found!"<br />
<br />
Oh yeah. A stick. Real smooth.<br />
<br />
He came to the door and looked at me like I was bleeding out or something, shouting for me to put it down and carrying me to the sink to SCRUB my hands.<br />
<br />
He, of course, explained to me that this was not a stick (which I'm pretty sure we both knew I was aware of before) and that it was dead.<br />
<br />
Dead.<br />
<br />
Now I knew "dead". You could be alive and you could be dead. Simple enough. Thanks, Dad!<br />
<br />
This memory comes back to me a lot. I've thought of it more and more since my spin in the cancer boat. With all of the death I had going on around me, I had to approach my thoughts about death in a different way. Especially because until this point, it wasn't really something I had to think about too often with regards to my own death.<br />
<br />
These were kids dying around me. Kids I was sitting beside one moment and then...gone.<br />
<br />
The idea of a "higher power" putting people through this and then making them "dead" didnt make sense to me. I dont know what I believe in...but if there is a higher power, then I couldn't accept that he (or she) was just making them "cease to exist." So I started reminding myself that I just don't know what happens-what the opposite of "alive" truly entails. My coping mechanism has been to stop thinking of them as "dead" when all I really know about their state of being is that they are not alive.<br />
<br />
Like the crow...brilliant right, see how I tied it all together?<br />
<br />
I write this post from a pancake house in Virginia at 6:15 am. I am sitting next to a guy named Chip and jot down these thoughts in a composition notebook covered in Strawberry Shortkake glitter stickers. (You'll have to forgive me friends. I'm currently reading Lena Dunham's memoir and she is a huge fan of random, quirky details that don't necessarily contribute importance but do make the sentence unnecessarily long. Love you Lena. Yes, I am jealous). I came to the pancake house right when it opened at six, following the news that my Godfather passed away just around 4:15. My uncle Harry. Lovingly referred to as simply Harry.<br />
I hadn't been sleeping anyway because I knew that this news was short on it's way. I'm on a six week contract in the middle of what feels like nowhere without a single person to cry on or to, so what else would I do but write over French toast next to Chip? Thinking about dead crows that aren't dead...or are they?<br />
<br />
I don't friggin know.<br />
<br />
My Godfather and I go way back. Yes, all the way to my baptism back, but also to a day that in my mind was an even bigger moment for me both because I actually remembered it and because it was Spice Girls related.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was very young--somewhere in my Rebecca and the crow days. I was at the mall with my parents, my aunt,<br />
and with Harry, when I happened upon a pink and white Spice Girls watch with an elastic wristband. I had lived long enough to know that I was probably gonna grow up to be Scary, Baby, Ginger, or Poshy (yeah, I insisted on calling her Poshy for awhile until she cut her hair and then for some reason something changed in me). But I would obviously need this watch to be whoever it was I was supposed to become and fulfill my platform boot destiny (oh yeah I was very philosophical in those days).<br />
My parents, cruel as they are, told me that it was too close to Christmas for little gifts like this, and that I'd have to wait. But I knew in my heart that the watch wouldn't wait. It'd be gone. So I cried and sulked the rest of the outing while frantically humming "Saturday Night Divas" as a means of calming myself down (I had Spice Girl schizophrenia).<br />
When it came time for us to part ways with Harry and my aunt, Harry grabbed my hand and pressed the watch into it. He grunted, "here."<br />
<br />
It was a Spicy miracle.<br />
<br />
But what it really, truly did was set the tone for our relationship. I was his Goddaughter, and that<br />
made me special, he was my godfather and that made him special. There was a smile and twinkling of the eyes that was reserved only for me. This was something we always shared.<br />
<br />
One year ago, we came to share another thing.<br />
We shared cancer.<br />
Of course, everyone's battle is their own, and no two could ever really be alike, but just as my baptism linked us, our cancers linked us. <br />
It's tricky though. Being a 23 year old whose been around the block with cancer before, to then encounter someone older than you being diagnosed--let alone a family member you look up to. You dont know how to be. You want to say, "hey I can kind of relate to some of the things that you are going through, but I'm not going to tell you that because why would you want to hear from a stupid twenty-something how she relates to what you're going through"?<br />
<br />
But the first time he saw me after his diagnosis, he called me over and said "hey, I need a hug from YOU." And I knew that that's how our odd similarity would be acknowledged. I'd take my cues from him.<br />
Our "cancer talk" was always very hush hush. Our chemo banter very staccato and quick:<br />
"Head gets cold."<br />
"Yup."<br />
"Fingers are tingly."<br />
"Oh yeah."<br />
"Can't taste cake."<br />
"Nope."<br />
"The ice tastes like--"<br />
"Metal."<br />
"Yeah."<br />
<br />
That was all. That was all it took.<br />
I've been feeling so guilty about how happy these conversations made me feel. Over the years our family has gotten bigger, Harry has grandchildren now, and I know that goddaughters and granddaughters are very different. Not to say I was no longer important--but you know what I mean.<br />
I wish the content of the conversations was a bit cheerier but it made me really happy in a sorts that my having had cancer before gave us those little conversations. They were quick and brief but made me feel helpful in a way that I don't really understand but am actually grateful for. They're some of my last conversations with him.<br />
<br />
People talk about survivors guilt. Yeah it exists but I didn't feel that with Harry. I felt glad that we could have the connection. And maybe a little guilt.<br />
<br />
Because its there somewhere inside you. The guilt exists. I sometimes wake up, and touch my cheekbones with the flats of my hand and say, "you still here?"<br />
<br />
I'm still here.<br />
<br />
Minus one.<br />
Minus a crow.<br />
Minus a watch.<br />
<br />
Rebecca taught me that just because something is no longer living that doesnt make it dead.<br />
<br />
Words of a Spice Girls schizo...but still...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ps. Harry--may your head be warm, your fingers untingly, may the cake taste sweet and the ice cubes fresh as a fountain. I love you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-28605332378985507942014-10-21T21:30:00.000-07:002014-10-21T21:31:05.204-07:00Resurrecting a Little SomethingCame across a scholarship essay I'd written a while back. Perfectly sums up how I've been feeling lately and just wanted to put it out into the universe again:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I’ve wanted to record my experiences for quite some time now. I refer to bits and pieces of it all the time, whether they are sensory memories or just through storytelling and what not, it seems to come up--at least in my mind--on an almost daily basis. Even my closest friends only know the “shell” of the story. The frame-work. And that’s not because I hold back when I discuss it with them. It’s because there is really so much to it all that it is just impossible for me to say what I want to say and keep it in the context of a conversation. </span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I was only seventeen. Seventeen. And yes, I am aware that teenagers deal with this “stuff” a lot--more than I really care to think about—but what people don’t realize is that because I was seventeen when I was given the big C-word (not that C-word), it shaped who I am almost entirely. When a forty year-old woman is diagnosed with breast cancer, and embarks on the war-like journey of chemotherapy, radiation therapy, etc, she is already whole. Meaning she knows who she is. She has experienced life and gotten to know herself as a person—separate from cancer and sickness. </span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> When a young child is diagnosed with leukemia, they will (hopefully) be cured by the time their id really starts to develop. The experience will already be over and done with to the point where a) they were so young that they won’t remember, or b) they are young enough to be able to leave the majority of the experience behind as a part of their childhood.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> But a young adult who suffers from a debilitating disease such as cancer—well, he or she is branded for life. Not necessarily in a bad way, no. It depends on how they mold the experience. But because they dealt with it during the time in which they are having their initial bouts of self-discovery…wham, bam, thank you ma’am—it’s who they are. What I learned from my experience with cancer as a young adult has directly lead me to who I am today, and plays a role in every thought I have, every decision I make, and every word I say. And it always will. Not to say the woman who defeats cancer at age 40 is not significantly changed—because she is—but she knows who she is separate from her illness. And a child who beats cancer—well, they have a lot more time to develop and to move on.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Not me. I am my cancer, through and through. And let me tell you—I am DAMN proud.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Often, when I talk with people, I just naturally refer to a time ‘in the hospital’ or ‘during treatment’. And half-way through the statement I think “shut up, Jesse, no one wants to hear about that. It’s so depressing.” But it is SO much a part of who I am. It was my entire life for a year and a half. </span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> When I say ‘I am my cancer’, it is not because I want everyone to look at me and think ‘poor baby, she had cancer’ or ‘there’s that girl who had cancer’. No. It is because the person I am today is a direct reflection of what I went through. And I say I’m proud because I am. I am so proud of myself. I went from a girl who had to have twenty four hours to mentally prepare before a flu-shot to a badass chick who bit her lip every fucking night while her father injected her with two intramuscular shots in the leg (and mad props to you too, Dad). I went from a girl who thought her life revolved around becoming some famous big-shot to a girl who realized...famous to whom?</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I will not, however, claim to be some perfect human being, though. While I do consider myself a strong person, there are little things that I still can’t seem to shake. Growing up—for some God-damned reason—I let society convince me that looks are important. So when I lost my long brown hair, shit hit the fan. I never, ever, not ONCE, went out in public without a wig on. Now, part of that was because I never wanted any pity from anyone, and I’ll be the first to admit that the thought that immediately pops into my head when I see a bald chick walking around is---‘oh my gosh, I feel so sorry for her’. But the majority of my reasoning had to do with vanity.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Today, my hair is back, but very short still—and I give myself a really hard time everyday when I look in the mirror, wishing it was long again. And I know…it’s just hair. But that’s the thing…cancer attacks the things that seem unimportant to you. Including your overall health (ahhhemmm, this is dedicated to teenagers and other young adults who insist on filling their lungs with smoke, obliterating their livers, getting high, and then driving a fucking car). It was just hair, it was just my last performance in high school, it was just awards night (that I wasn’t even informed about—thanks West Genesee). The only reason I even got to go to prom was because the freaking nurses worked around the clock to make sure all my chemo was given at precisely the right time, that I was tanked up on blood and platelets, and that my kidneys weren’t going to shut down in the middle of the event---yeah how’s that for pre-gaming before prom! Woo! (Another thing…nurses. So freakin’ underappreciated. High five, nurses).</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> And family. Maybe you’re surprised that I include family in a list of things that seem unimportant. Well. Don’t you think you take them for granted? Pretty sure I did. Until it was a possibility that my time with them was limited. Give your loved ones a freakin’ hug. Seriously. Go, do it.</span></div>
<div style="padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I think you can clearly see that these events are fresh on my mind. I remember every detail. So when I stop myself from talking about stuff that happened to me during my illness—I have to think about it for a second, and then I let myself continue. Because just as the things that have happened to you in the past few years are some of the freshest memories you have…I spent a lot of time battling this illness. So many young people do. Too many young people do. So when you hear me, or someone like me, refer to my experience it’s not because I want your pity (trust me, if you look/talk to me like I’m a freakin’ helpless puppy, you are GOING to get called out on it), and it’s not because I want attention. It’s because it’s who I am. It was my life during a critical period of self discovery. I am my cancer—whether I like it or not. I kicked the shit out of my cancer, and I’ll do it again if I have to. But the things I learned from it made me who I am. </span></div>
Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-42480147206463305452014-05-01T21:10:00.002-07:002014-05-02T13:24:45.959-07:00Inspiration and Respect<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">About a month
ago, I wrote up a nice little post about a boy from my past who I believe only
liked me for my cancer. Pretty much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It sounds
ridiculous, but when I look back on my life post-treatment I have to hand it to
myself: I’m f*cking fascinating. I have all these quirks, and strange habits,
and fears, and I go about my everyday life as if all of those things don’t
exist. As if 2009 never happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When I think
back to that year, there’s kind of a haze over the memory. The year as a whole, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What I mean
to say is that the year as a whole seems to have this foggy amnesia-like cloud
over it. <b>It’s a blur.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">But a
specific memory—a perfume scent, a beeping sound at 3 am, the soapy taste of
Ifosfamide, holding my breath while the nurse plunged a needle in my chest,
cursing at people who were just trying to help—<b>that is all as clear as the deep
blue sky.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">But it’s not
every day that I’m accessing these memories—it’s every day that I’m accessing
the fog. I don’t really know if that
makes sense. But every day I’m aware of
that foggy cloud over my shoulder whispering question marks and threatening to
toss out one of those memories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Again. It truly is fascinating. I’m fascinating. I’ll say it—<b>it’s my blog, screw
humility. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">But the
fascination people have with me—the fascination with my story, with memories…with
those quirks and strange habits—well, I’m afraid people often confuse it with
who I really am, and it blurs their judgment. Confuses them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">At least that’s
the way I thought it happened with that boy.
Looking back I fear that he confused his feelings of fascination with
feelings of affection. With FEELINGS feelings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I wrote a
blog post about it, but I’m pretty sure my approach in writing it was all
wrong. I showed it to him beforehand,
because I felt guilty. And he asked me
something that I know is meant as a positive testament to who I am—but that
could not be further from what I want from people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">He asked me
why it was that he was not allowed to be inspired by me. What was so wrong with thinking that I’m
inspiring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">You may be
thinking NOTHING. NOTHING is wrong with
being inspiring. What could she possibly
have against being inspiring?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">But what I
think…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What I feel…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Is that foggy
little cloud over my shoulder.
Constantly pricking at my back, threatening to swallow me, lording it’s
power…and I can’t help but think…this foggy cloud inspires you? This awful black hole that brings so much
pain and uncertainty into my life…is your inspiration?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And of course…you’re
probably thinking “no, Jesse. It’s
you. It’s the fact that you put up with
that cloud that makes us inspired.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Well, let me
tell you—I wasn’t given much choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I’ve run all
the scenarios through my head so many times.
Thought to myself…you can’t just let people do what they do? You can’t let them spin something positive
out of your experience? <b> They just want
to be inspired.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Well, as a close
friend of mine would say:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><b>Go inspire
<i>yourself</i>.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What I
want? Is your <b><u>respect.</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br />
I don’t want to know if you’re inspired by me.
Inspiration is something that occurs within you, and if you find it
in my sad little tale, then that’s great.
Keep it to yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I’m after
your respect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Show me some respect, and we can be
friends.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-732582284374207592014-03-26T15:12:00.004-07:002014-03-26T15:12:49.886-07:00I'm a Cockroach<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday I turned 23 years old.</span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5 years ago I turned 18, and wondered if it might be my last birthday.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">WELL GUESS WHAT MOTHERF***ERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU CAN'T KILL ME OFF I'M LIKE A COCKROACH.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a five year cancer survivor now--and yeah go ahead, have a "good for her she's inspiring" moment, <b>I won't begrudge you that. </b> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now STOP.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of my goals as a 23 year old bitch who is officially cured of cancer<b> is to revive this blog.</b> I've had my time away from it, which I desperately needed; it got to a point where I felt like each week I was saying "Okay, Jesse. Let's delve into the deepest darkest memories you have of your illness, add some wit, swear words, and bold lettering, and make some piece of shit blog post."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No more. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You may be thinking--well why then, Jesse? Why don't you start a new blog about something else? The answer is very simple and complicated: <b>cancer would simply keep coming the f*ck up! </b> It's still a pretty present aspect of my every day life, and when I ended this blog, I thought perhaps it wouldn't be so THERE all the time. And I was wrong.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had cancer, and it still wreaks some havoc, my friends. But wtf am I supposed to do about it?</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, for one thing, <b>I'm bringing blogging back.</b> It will not be a weekly thing. Probably more monthly, bi-monthly if that's a thing. And it might not always be totally cancer focused because it really does get super depressing.<b> At the moment I have a love-hate relationship with blogging, but I need to write to get shit out of my head, so here we are. </b> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You may also recall that about a month ago, in the midst of working two jobs, I tried to start a tumblr. I posted one little thing and then disappeared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No more. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I will be posting just some of my self-indulgent little essays and such on there. I can't even remember what the tumblr was called or what the link was. Hold up. I'm gonna look into it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aha.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.unfamouslyjesse.tumblr.com</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My own insecurities are urging me to inform you beforehand that I have less than ten followers. I would rather you hear that from me than log on and say to yourself "oh wow, Jesse has less than ten followers." <b>...I feel as though it softens the blow if I tell you ahead of time.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm excited to bring this thing back because I really do have things I want to bring forth that I feel are important aspects of living as a female young adult cancer survivor--because there are a lot of differences and separate issues that come up when you look at each demographic separately.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of my ideas I believe are going to make people mad. I've decided that I need to get over that. I was always that girl who would do or be anyone so long as no one was mean to me. Middle school, high school, college...I just never wanted people to be mean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But ya know what? <b>F*ck that too. </b>This blog is back, and it's gonna get heated. Maybe. Maybe what I think of as heated is not what you think of as heated, because on a heating scale, my tendencies are lukewarm at best...but we'll see.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What the hell am I talking about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who knows.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So to get this revival started on the right foot, I decided to leave y'all with an actual list (not a cutesy, joking, sarcastic list) of things I believe have helped me become a semi-functioning cancer survivor <b>who doesn't curl up in a ball in the corner of the room rocking back and forth reciting the steps to safely heparin lock an IV or bloodline:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">10. There is no fixed timeline for your life. It doesn't all have to happen by such and such a point in your life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">9. You have to find a decent balance between health and happiness. You can worry your pretty little head day in and day out about preventing illness, having a perfect body, doing cleanses, keeping up with the latest cancer-causing products and avoiding them like the plague--but sometimes things happen that are just unpreventable and out of your control. So go ahead. <b>You can have MacDonalds on a Monday. Just don't have it Tuesday-Sunday.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8. You are never going to find someone who fully understands and comprehends the things you are going through. <b>When they try, take it easy on them.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">7. You are never going to be able to fully understand and comprehend the things that other people are going through. <b>You can try, but take it easy on them.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. "One day..." has to become today. <b> It just has to.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. <b>You cannot be mean to yourself. </b> Whatever that means to you. I don't care how nice and kind you are to other people, or how self-centered this sounds. I thought for a long time that I hated who I was. And then one day, I was contemplating death--as a cancer-survivor often does--and I realized that I would miss myself. I would miss having my mind, thinking my thoughts, spewing my sarcasm, and just being Jesse Pardee. <b>I realized then that I like the person I am.</b> It was a really big moment for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's why I go out by myself sometimes. <b> I'm a great date. </b>Which brings me to...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. Never be afraid of alone time. You're not a loser. You're not a hermit. You're not weird. It doesn't have to be a scary or sad thing. <b> Make it a therapeutic thing. You have that power.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Night time is not solve-all-your-problems time. <b>Shut the f*ck up, take an ativan, and go to bed.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. Look out the window once a day and take a mental picture of your surroundings. Realize that your life is not something that exists only when you have achieved a certain dream, or become successful, or found love, money etc...<b>it's right now.</b> <b>It's you and that window in that setting in those surroundings. Now.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. Your family can become your very best friends. Your very best friends can become your family. <b> Let them :)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until next time...whenever that may be...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jesse</span>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-6168097265762291602013-09-13T19:37:00.004-07:002013-09-13T19:37:52.010-07:00THIS IS HAPPENING.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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BEST BE SAVIN' THOSE DATES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-57339681336752644662013-06-26T22:49:00.003-07:002013-06-26T23:34:54.518-07:00The Song of Purple Summer: THE END.When I was first admitted to the hospital, I had a "thing" about needles.<br />
<div>
<b>I didn't want them. No needles for me.</b></div>
<div>
But I quickly came to understand that needles were now a part of my daily life. Every few days I would go and get blood drawn, and for the first few weeks it was an ordeal every time. My dad would come in and sit with me, holding my hand, and the nurse's would hold their breath, hoping they didn't get messed up, as I was a bit of a loose cannon <b>which is a nice way of saying huge bitch asshole. </b>They'd bring in the IV team, and even they had trouble because I couldn't relax, couldn't stay calm, couldn't keep from getting worked up.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Once, when we were on our way in to check counts, my dad suggested I find a song that made me relax, and play it on my iPod while they drew my blood. Well, at this time, all I listened to was the original cast recording of Spring Awakening. <b>It was the perfect blend of anger and hope for a teenager going through hell.</b> And so I took in my iPod and played "The Song of Purple Summer"--the final song in the show. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A summer's day a mother sings a song of purple summer</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
through the heart of everything. And heaven waits, so close, it seems</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to show her child the wonder of a world beyond her dreams.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The earth will wave with corn</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The day so wide, so warm</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And mares will nay with stallions that they mate,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
foals they've born. And all shall know the wonder</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of purple summer.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Listening to the words, I opened my eyes to realize that the tourniquet was off, the band-aid in the nurse's hand, and my blood in tiny vials on the desk. <b> It was over. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I didn't have much trouble with needles from then on. I played "The Song of Purple Summer", and closed my eyes, and it was over before I knew it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Those You've Known" became my anthem for my fallen friends, <b>"Bitch of Living" for all those times I wanted to kick people in the face, rip out the tubes, and give up.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Make-A-Wish Foundation, being that I was 17 at the time of diagnosis, was generous enough to offer me a wish. <b> I had only one. </b> I wanted to just get to audition for the show. I knew they probably weren't looking for replacements, and I knew it was a long shot anyway that I'd actually be cast in the show. But the music of the show was so much a part of my treatment that it was in my blood now--really, though. <b>I just wanted to get to sing it, and live it.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That, or Disneyworld. That's what I told them. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But the Make-A-Wish foundation made it happen, and the entire creative team of Spring Awakening was kind enough to dedicate an afternoon to audition me in New York City, three months after my treatment ended. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Well, I was absolutely terrified, and the day of the audition, I couldn't believe what was happening. It was such a liberating day. I worked with everyone: the casting director, the director, the music director, learned choreography, worked on music, read scenes...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A month later, I received word that they were extremely impressed with my audition and that the tour was coming to Rochester, NY...and would I do the ensemble track for a weekend of shows? <b>You don't say no to that...it was so unreal.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
On a Friday morning I drove up to Rochester and spent five hours going over harmonies, learning music, choreography, movement, and staging.<br />
<br />
And that evening, I had my opening night with the cast. Everyone on the tour--the cast, the stage management, the crew--everyone involved was so unbelievably welcoming and kind to me, and there were so many experiences from that weekend that I will never be able to forget.<br />
<br />
But one of those moments that stuck out the most was during my last performance. During "The Song of Purple Summer" there is a moment when the ensemble stands on the chairs and sings the chorus a capella, before swelling into the final section. And as I stood on my chair singing those words, it was like a slow motion scene in a movie. It became hard for me to sing, and all of a sudden I could feel tears stinging my cheeks. The ensemble members on the other side of the stage must've seen, because they smiled at me as they sang, and I even saw a few of the characters onstage tearing up--<b>that moment was mine. </b><br />
<br />
Because in that moment, I realized how I'd come full circle. I'd been a sickly little girl listening to this song, squeezing her dad's hand through pinpricks and spinal taps, injections and MRI's, chemotherapy and radiation...and here I was, on this big stage with some of the most talented theater performers, singing "The Song of Purple Summer", doing what I've wanted to do since I was young. <b> I kept asking myself, did you ever think in a million years when you were laying in that hospital bed that one year later, you would be here, singing this song onstage with the national tour of Spring Awakening, a cancer survivor?</b><br />
<br />
That moment...marked the real ending of my cancer experience. <b>As cheesy as it sounds, it was my liberation from the dark year of 2009.</b><br />
<br />
<b>This post is my "Song of Purple Summer." It's the end. </b> When I started this blog one year and forty posts ago, it was a healing tool. It allowed me to get all of my frustration, anger, and triumph out of my head, and filed away somewhere. <br />
<br />
But I feel it becoming more of an obligation than an outlet. <b>Because now I've outgrown it.</b> This blog has served its purpose in my life. <b>If I continued this blog, I would be dwelling in the past. </b><br />
<br />
So that's all there is, folks. <b> Jesse doesn't want to be disgruntled anymore--and it's a good thing. </b> It's a milestone. I'm graduating from college in December, and I'm really ready to start fresh. <br />
<br />
The blog won't be gone. It'll be here. Every once in a while you'll hear from me. But right now, <b>I'm done confessing.</b><br />
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<b><i>I want to thank you all for supporting this blog. I never imagined it would gain the following that it has, and I'm extremely grateful--and of course, any of my fellow cancer fighters who need somebody to shoot the shit with (and really, anyone in general), can contact me by email (jesspardee@yahoo.com). </i></b><br />
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Now, my children, go forth, and listen to some Lana Del Rey.<br />
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Much Love,<br />
Jesse<br />
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-82513980000890728962013-06-12T20:14:00.004-07:002013-06-12T20:31:10.397-07:00OMG I'm So Sorry! I Didn't Realize Your Life Was So Hard! <span style="font-size: large;">If you haven't figured it out by now, I sort of post whenever the hell I feel like it so...yeah. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>To be honest, I've just been a little depressed lately what with the Jodi Arias trial not resuming until July 18th</b>...it's really got me down, and my thoughts have been so all over the place--I just couldn't possibly bring myself to post on time when my whole life is on pause. But no worries, I'm getting my shit together. <b>Bad Girls Club All-Star Challenge will keep me going.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But on to cancer--<b>you know, my most identifying quality. </b>One of the most common phrases I hear on almost a regular basis goes a little bit like this: "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't be complaining to <i>you.</i>" To which my mental response is usually,<b> "And yet you are..." </b> BUT I would never say that aloud, and I do a pretty good job of reminding myself that not everyone has had to deal with something as awful as cancer, and that I should be understanding and so on and so forth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">During my treatment, however, I was not so understanding. As I've said countless times,<b> I was a nasty ass bitch that entire year, and chances are pretty likely that if you were facebook friends with me at the time, I read your statuses and judged you by how petty and trivial your problems were.</b> For example, someone might post the following:</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Just dont knoww wut 2 do anymore. It's lykke y do i even try??? </3</span></i><br />
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To which I would say/think (and in some cases actually post):</span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br />OMG I'm so sorry! I didn't realize your life was so hard! Yeah, while I was getting my 3rd dose of toxic chemicals this morning, I was thinking about how you bought the perfect thong at Charlotte Russe so you could wear your pants too low and get Johnny's attention--and clearly by the tone of your status, I see that it didn't work! <b>How will you ever find happiness?</b> I <b>literally</b> didn't realize that your life was so hard. Excuse me while my dad gives me this injection--but please, by all means, keep me posted! <b>I'll be on the toilet for the next 12 hours with severely painful constipation but I need to know that you're doing okay!</b></span></i><br />
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I did that. Every night. And I know. It's despicable. But you'd be surprised how exhilarating it was. Because its what many people expect I already do, and because I sometimes miss this healthy release of anger, I decided that for this one blog post, I would allow myself the pleasure of that kind of bitter judgement and self-pity. So here we go:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u>But then [Justin Bieber] took a stand, letting loose with this instantly-infamous statement: “I really just want to say, it really should be about the music. It should be about the craft that I’m making. This is not a gimmick, I’m not — I’m an artist, and I should be taken seriously. And all this other bull should not be spoken of.”</u> (Entertainment Weekly)</span><br />
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<i><b>OMG I'm so sorry! I didn't realize your life was so hard!</b> People aren't taking you seriously??? <b>With musical masterpieces like "Baby", "U Smile", and "Beauty and a Beat"??? </b>You must be kidding! You poor, poor thing. No wonder you drive your disgustingly expensive car at 100 mph in the middle of the night down your disgustingly up-scale neighborhood! Maybe once you kill an innocent civilian in your ridiculous f**king car, avoid jail-time because of your celebrity status and high-paid attorneys, and make ANOTHER BRILLIANT FILM about your wise, 19 years of life-experience starring you, your pet monkey and your girlfriend who used to be on Barney...<b>MAYBE THEN PEOPLE WILL TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY!!!!!! </b>Until that day though, dear Justin, I'll be here taking my gigantic horse-pills waiting for that crazy dialysis contraption. You just keep on keepin' on, Justin!!! NEVER SAY NEVER!!! </i><i>I <b>literally</b> didn't realize that your life was so hard. </i></span><br />
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"For years I've always been so gracious," Kim [Kardashian] writes. "Every shot they take now just isn't flattering & crazy stories get made up, so why would I willingly just let them stalk me & smile for them?"</u> (iVillage)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>OMG I'm so sorry! I didn't realize your life was so hard! </b>Why would someone who willingly allows cameras to record her every move ever be okay with so much attention? It's not like you can just deal with the paparazzi and escape to your enormous mansion with the bowling alley! People seriously need to be a little bit more understanding about your needs. I mean, gracious is an understatement! <b>You're so gracious, in fact, that you've been goodly enough to allow men and women everywhere to watch you have sex with Ray-J! </b> And goddamn, if only pregnancy were more flattering, maybe the pictures would be better...I just wish pregnancy could be easier for you Kim, I really do. I mean I've seen my share of suffering--hell, I've seen a six year-old suffer a stroke! But nothing could come close to the pain you must be feeling when you open a magazine and see a picture of your pregnant belly! So unflattering...you'd think after all these years of human existence, they could at least come up with an easier method for people who are filthy rich. My thoughts are with you. After I send out my positive energy to the victims of Oklahoma, Hurricane Sandy, Boston Bombings, The Newtown Massacre, and all of the sick and suffering, I say a little a prayer for you, Kim. </i><i>I <b>literally</b> didn't realize that your life was so hard. </i></span><br />
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<u>“People will stare at me no matter what and it’s the most irritating thing in the world. </u><u>I got so much attention from all the guys, but I didn't get along with any of the girls. They were extremely jealous of me....when you look like me, it's not easy."</u><i> --True Life, I'm Too Beautiful</i></span><br />
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<i><b>OMG I'm so sorry! I didn't realize your life was so hard!</b> How do you even get out of bed in the morning? I mean, I would look in the mirror and just start sobbing big wet tears of disdain at my perfectly tanned face and slender cheekbones. People never think about how miserable it must be to have long beautiful hair, perfect skin, and gigantic boobs! I mean, for people to force you to wear all those reveal</i><i>ing outfits...is just--<b>god it makes me so angry! </b> <b>Don't they know you don't want attention? </b> Oh wait...no one forced you? You mean you voluntarily flash your breasts in everyone's face, and take place in female wrestling? Well...no. NO. YOU are the victim in all this, you gorgeous outcast, you. <b>I truly hope I run into you sometime at the hospital while I'm getting my X-rays and you're getting your new tits. We can grab lunch and talk about how difficult it is for you to be a young, attractive, white female in 2013 society. </b> Good luck and godspeed. </i><i>I <b>literally</b> didn't realize that your life was so hard. </i></span><br />
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WOO! That felt good. I will now reassemble my positive outlook, and remind myself that the problems of one, however great or small, can be just as trying as the problems of another.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But sometimes celebrities deserve it...</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">OK I SWEAR I'M DONE <3</span></i><br />
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<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-52518745796076293682013-06-02T20:43:00.000-07:002013-06-05T23:27:46.761-07:00They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab but I Said Probably Next Year<b style="text-align: center;">Hello, my name is Jesse, and I'm afraid of brushing my teeth.</b><br />
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The idea of tasting the toothpaste, feeling the bristles, spitting in the sink, brushing my tongue...<b>it is all absolutely terrifying.</b> It is the absolute last thing I do in the morning, and I procrastinate until the very last second--really until I have to leave the house. <br />
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You see, when I first began chemo, I was very, very pukey all the time, and brushing my teeth would always make it worse--you swallow a little bit of toothpaste here and there, it mixes with the nausea you're already feeling, or the toothbrush triggers your gag reflex...<b>it's a terribly dangerous game, the brushing of the teeth is. </b><br />
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It is one of many things that plague me to this day. <b>I just can't brush my teeth with the same whimsical innocence anymore try as I might.</b> I've tried it all too--I bought a fun mechanical toothbrush...to no avail. I even use Dora the Explorer Bubblegum Orajel training toothpaste to improve the taste of tooth-brushing--no luck. <br />
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I need help. I need professional help for my fear of tooth care, my chemo brain, and the suppressed memories that I refuse to call post-traumatic stress disorder. <br />
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BUT. I miscalculated. <b>I miscalculated in the worst way.</b> You see, in all my cancer power and warrior-ness, when treatment ended, I thought I could close that chapter of my life for good. Write it off as a terrible experience that I can tuck away in the depths of my brain for another day--<b>I didn't need therapy right now.</b> I'd look to get therapy once I'd restarted my life. It's something to decide upon later.<br />
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I saw a few counselors here and there...but have been reluctant to see anyone steadily because I know I'm going to have to unlock certain parts of my brain that I've tried like hell to keep quiet. <br />
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I love my family, and I can't blame us for the way we tried so hard to resume a normal life immediately after my treatment. It was what we fought for for so long...to be "normal". To go to the grocery store and not be bombarded by people asking about my health, to go wherever we wanted without having to worry about germs, or blood counts, or white cells, to have the ability to make plans that aren't scheduled around chemo dates, radiation times, and neupogen shots. <b>As soon as we got the all clear...we tried to wipe the slate clean.</b><br />
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And I can't speak for my entire family...but I can tell you that at numerous times during my treatment, <b>I thought they were going to have to take me to Psych.</b> Whenever we drove out of the Upstate Hospital parking garage we would drive past Hutchings Psychiatric Hospital, and each time I'd point out the window and say, <b>"you're gonna have to put me there. As soon as we're done at Upstate, you're gonna put me in there."</b> I was mostly joking. <b>But not entirely.</b><br />
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I know it's not entirely surprising that I was severely depressed during my treatment. I probably suffered more mentally than I did physically if we're being totally honest. Looking back, I understand that in many ways the depression caused more damage than the chemo...sure, the chemo did it's job, and totally wrecked my body, my cells, my organs. But it's absolutely amazing, the ways of the human body. The way our bodies are programmed to endure, to replenish, to fight, and to survive. <br />
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But the mind? The mind is another story, the mind is trickier...and I severely underestimated its power. Because while the body has that amazing ability to recover,<b> the mind has the ability to recall. </b> And sometimes what the mind can recall--consciously and subconsciously--can be just as dangerous. I have vivid memories of locking myself in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, crying and banging my head against the wall. I have nightmares about the tiny hall washroom where my mother held my hand as my father shaved my head. Squeezing my eyes closed so I couldn't see the hair falling...the tears that seeped out no matter how tight I shut them them. They were absolutely the darkest times of my life. <b> Dark, icky, and not fun to remember.</b><br />
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I've been lucky in a lot of ways, because even though I tried to skip over the "mental recovery" phase, I've been able to keep myself in check. But a lot of comments I get from friends and in emails are compliments on how put together and well-adjusted I seem in my blog. And while I appreciate it...I have to say that I've fooled you.<br />
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I'm not all that okay. I'm messed up in the head. Pretty bad. It just hasn't been something I really like to talk about because it's important to me to appear strong. Sure, I've talked about my anxiety, my OCD, my antidepressants.<br />
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But I think it's important for me to lay it out in black and white. So here it is. <b>I suffer mentally. I really, truly do...and I think most cancer survivors would agree that some of the biggest scars are the ones they've endured in the mind. </b><br />
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Mental illness is still such a taboo topic in society, and when I was a younger girl dealing with OCD it was something I wanted to keep hidden from everybody else. But as soon as my physical ailments became public knowledge--all discretion went out the door. I don't care who knows:<br />
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<b>I'm depressed. I'm anxious. I'm damaged. I'm angry.</b></div>
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<b>And I'm not ashamed. Not one little bit.</b></div>
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Whether you've had cancer or not,<b> life is often a heap 'a shit. </b> I firmly believe that suffering is not the human condition. <b>Living is the human condition.</b> If I've learned anything of substance from my experience, it's that the most important thing to worry about <b>is waking up tomorrow.</b> When I have rough days...I take a step back and ask myself how I'm going to get myself to tomorrow. <b>And tomorrow, I'll figure out how to get to the next day.</b></div>
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<b>I neEd thaaa rehAbBb lyKe mAhh GurL aMy.</b> (R.I.P.A.W)</div>
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Not only because I'm afraid of brushing my teeth...there are a slew of other quirks that have come up as a result of chemo. Certain smells set me off...I have to drown myself in perfume sometimes to rid myself of a certain stench. I was in someone's car last week and it smelled so vividly like ifosfamide and I thought I was going to punch a hole through the dashboard and escape down the highway. There's nightmares...there's survivor's guilt...<b>I'm gonna be a messed up crazy bitch for the rest of my life. </b> </div>
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Now that I'm almost a 5 year survivor...it's time to take care of myself mentally...time to deal with the demons. This summer, I'm planning to see a woman who works specifically with people who have been touched by cancer. I talked with her once before, and left her office feeling a million times better. </div>
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It's never wrong to need help. <b>No one should live in fear of the toothbrush.</b></div>
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Jesse</div>
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PS:</div>
On an unrelated note, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that unless you have had the responsibility of taking care of a long blonde wig, <b>then you have NO idea how unreasonable it can be. </b> <b>THAT SHIT IS HIGH MAINTENANCE MY FRIENDS</b>, and when you're caught off guard and told you're being arrested...there is absolutely NO TIME to fix it up...<b>it's just not realistic.</b> Everyone needs to <b>take a STEP BACK</b> and re-examine the critiques they are making on Amanda Bynes' recent hairdo. Because it can <b>AND DOES</b> happen ALL THE TIME:<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Amanda Bynes) (Umm. Unknown female.)</span></div>
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The way I see it is Amanda can wear whatever the hell she wants because she's young, she's rich, and she's livin' it up. So. There. <b> She's doing better than I am, if that means anything to her</b>. She probably reads my blog all the time... </div>
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<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-90138599951103421892013-05-28T21:42:00.004-07:002013-05-28T21:52:25.115-07:004.5It's official friends. <b>I had my tests done last week, and I am now a four and a half year cancer survivor.</b> In December, I'll reach that big ole five year milestone and I guess really be considered "cured". It's an odd way to look at it, because it means that these past four years since treatment, I have not been considered "cured", and therefore it can be assumed, was still ultimately a cancer patient...<br />
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But to be honest, although I posted a facebook status and tweeted about my good news, I wasn't all that excited. That sounds so bad. I was--and am--so grateful to be healthy, and of course, I was quite relieved. But I can't honestly say that I was overly thrilled by the news. Which sounds bad however I try to justify it, but still.<br />
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I think part of it has to do with an experience I had in the waiting room. <br />
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Going to the hospital to have those tests done is always a little bit odd. I still feel like I know that place better than anyone, even though it's been so long. I decided a while ago that I would go to my follow up appointments alone. When you bring your entire family with you, it feels like a big deal. I mean, it is a big deal. But it feels like LESS of a big deal if I go alone. <b>I clearly play a lot of mind games with myself.</b><br />
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I always stand in line to get my hospital badge printed wondering if it's going to be an easy or difficult ordeal. If it's an easy ordeal, the lady at the desk simply asks for my driver's license, prints the badge, and hands them both back to me, sending me on my way to 4A. If it's going to be a difficult day, it means that the lady at the desk has decided to be a pain in the ass and send me to wait in line at registration. I don't know which one is protocol because it is so inconsistent each time. If it's protocol to have to wait in line at registration even though you've visited the hospital more times than you care to remember, that's fine. <b>I just wish they would decide, and accept the fact that I'm going to huff and puff because I've earned the right to act like a bitch at the hospital--a right that doesn't matter at all, because I've always acted like a bitch at the hospital.</b><br />
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The bitchiness consumes me. I can't stop it. Unless you've taken care of me before--my doc for example, the woman who draws my blood every time, my oncologist's nurse--<b>god protect you. </b><br />
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I immediately get this pissed off heir about me, and respond to all questions as though you're really really annoying me. I won't make eye contact with you. God forbid you ask for a urine sample. God forbid you make me list my medication more than once. God forbid you even look at me funny. AND YOU BETTER MAKE YOUR PEACE if you ask me how to spell Fanconi's syndrome. <b> This ain't no spelling bee.</b><br />
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The X-ray technicians always try to play cute. I guess they're used to most people being like "yeah, my doc sent me for X-rays, but I dunno why, and I dunno what I'm having X-rayed." Anywho, the technician will be like "OK, Jesse, can you say you're date of birth for me? And do you know what we're going to be doing today?"<br />
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The answer: "3/25/91. You'll be taking four pictures--two of my chest to look at my lungs, and two of my pelvis. First you'll look at the floor and ashamedly ask if I'm pregnant. I'll say no. You'll tell me to look straight ahead at the sticker on the wall, hold the bar above my head, take a breathe, hold it, let it out. Repeat with variations. You'll ask me to wait for a minute while you look at the slides to make sure you got good pictures. If you haven't, we'll have to do it all again, and if you have, I can get the hell out of here. <b>BAM</b>. "<br />
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I'm a master of blood tests. Prick my finger, poke my veins, it doesn't phase me anymore. As long as you give me a little "one, two, three, poke", I'm good. Bleed me dry. Have a ball. <br />
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A nurse will tell me to hop on the scale. She's measuring in kilograms. She'll awkwardly ask if I'd like to see what it is in pounds, <b>to which the answer is "that's really quite alright, but thanks.</b>"<b> </b> She'll ask me if I'm in pain, and by some lucky twist of fate, the answer is no. I'm not in any pain. I'm almost back to maximum flexibility, I'm able to exercise with no restrictions and not feel any sort of pain whatsoever. <br />
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It's all gotten so routine for me that I numb myself to the process. I bring in my book and tune everything out until I'm spoken to, until I'm called, until it's my turn. When it's done, I get my parking validated, take the stairs to the ground level, get in the car and go to McDonalds, <b>because there's no better way to celebrate a positive doctors appointment than with terrible, delicious food that will eventually give me a heart attack, thus making all the chemo and radiation irrelevant.</b><br />
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But last week, I broke my routine numbness. I was sitting in the waiting room, reading. I'd already run into the doctor on the elevator and was feeling pretty at ease. Across from me is a young girl, probably twelve or thirteen, and beside me is her mother. The girl is eating some cheese and crackers, and is watching "Say Yes to the Dress" on the waiting room TV.<br />
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Occasionally, the mother comments on things going on around us. She tells her daughter that she should probably have eaten a better meal before she came, because cheese and crackers isn't enough. The girl says that if she was in school today, she'd already be at lunch. Her mother says she remembers how they watched "Say Yes to the Dress" over and over again when they were in the hospital, and says how funny it is that it's always on when they're here. <br />
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A pump goes off in the other room. If you've ever been in the hospital for any extended period of time, then you might be familiar with the beeping sound that fills the room whenever the pumps go off. For me, it conjures up memories of tubes becoming twisted, the pump needing to be charged, a chemo bag empty, fluids needing to be replaced. The beeping apparently reminds the girl in the waiting room of when you obstruct the needle by moving a certain way, causing the flow of medicine, blood, etc to be obstructed. She says, "someone must have twisted the wrong way", and her mother agrees and they both remember all the times it happened to them.<br />
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Their remembering aloud distracts me from my book, and I start remembering, too. I ask them if they're also former patients.<br />
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They are and they aren't. <br />
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The mother asks me if I have a blood disorder, too, and I tell her no, I had bone cancer. She asks me the typical curiosity questions, and by the end of our conversation, they are being called in to their appointment. The mother stands, and for the first time I see the two giant bags of clothing and supplies she's carried with her. <b>"Just in case," she says. "We're prepared this time."</b><br />
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They're prepared just in case they have to stay over night. It makes me want to cry.<br />
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I remember bringing in huge bags of "stuff" just in case my blood tests came back poorly and I had to be transferred to the inpatient floor. Just in case my quick doctor's appointment turned into a long stay in a hospital bed. <br />
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I realize I'm lucky in many ways. I'm lucky that I don't feel pain anymore. I'm lucky that I'm healthy. And in that moment when she asked me if I had a blood disorder, <b>I actually felt lucky to be able to say "no, just cancer."</b><br />
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Because with cancer, all that medical poking and prodding--it's temporary.<b> You either endure and be cured, or you endure and then die. </b><br />
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But there are people like this young girl...for whom hospital stays and needles and blood transfusions and platelet transfusions---all these things are the norm. They're all they've ever known. The struggle is ongoing.<br />
<br />
<b>I dealt with this shit for ten months and thought it was pure hell. She's been dealing with it her entire life, and will continue to deal. </b><br />
<br />
It really changed the way I saw everything--and I'm not sure how or in what way. But the news that I'm still in remission...it's wonderful...b<b>ut I can't get that girl in the waiting room out of my head</b>. And all I can think about is how immensely and intensely human beings suffer. This world is an incredibly unfair place, and many don't even realize it. It's so easy for me to cheer and celebrate my remission and then resume my "normal person" life and forget. Which, to be honest, is what I've done. <b>I've turned my back on that part of my life because it's too icky and painful to deal with...and that's not right.</b><br />
<br />
I don't quite know what I'm getting at here. Just that I really feel a lot of anguish that 95% of the world has no idea how lucky they are. <b> No idea whatsoever.</b><br />
<br />
And I can't end this entry on a positive note for some reason. Because there's no positive ending for it. Everybody stop and take the time to really understand just how good you have it right now, and ask yourself what you really, really want. <b>And if the answer is not to wake up in the morning and see the people who love you...then maybe it's time to re-evaluate your priorities.</b><br />
<br />
<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-53815752029249160002013-05-19T23:13:00.003-07:002013-05-19T23:47:10.428-07:00"Penny"Hello good peeps,<br />
<div>
I said last week I'd be including one of my short stories in this weeks' post. It's a true story from my cancer experience and is about one of my many heroes from my stays in the hospital (although I changed the name). It's an early draft, and far from perfect, <b>so don't judge, bitches.</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hope you enjoy it, and don't get bored and stop reading because its kind of long. <b>BUT READ IT ALL! </b></div>
<div>
<b>Please.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
PENNY</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by Jesse Pardee</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny is coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She waddles into my hospital room on Christmas with her
mom, and is without a doubt the most precious bald kid I’ve ever seen. She’s tiny and bouncy and apparently she runs this place, or so I’ve heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She’s three. She
has leukemia. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It is only my third day in the hospital and Mom tells
me Penny has been here for over a month. We
are the only patients on the pediatric oncology ward today, which I guess is a
good thing; apparently this place is usually crammed full of little kids here
for their chemo and their blood transfusions, their throat sores and their skin
reactions, their radiation and their fevers, their low platelets and their depleted
white cells. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
But it’s just Penny
and me at opposite ends of the hall on this Christmas Day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny clings to her mother’s hand as they round the
corner into my hospital room. Her mom
greets mine, and asks if it’s okay to come in. Mom looks at me and I manage a small nod. As they approach, Penny and I lock eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She has the glare
of a deadly assassin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
She’s sizing me up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve heard about Penny from one of the nurses, the one who keeps
trying to make me walk: “Penny wants to meet you. She likes to know everyone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I know what this
is really about. Penny wants to check out
the fresh meat. I need to be on my A game.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny has bruises up and down her arms and legs. From what I’ve learned about cancer so far,
the bruises must be from running around the playroom with low platelets—but I
have my own theory: she’s the Keeper of Pediatric Oncology. She’s been cracking skulls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Yes, yes. She has
most definitely been cracking skulls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Her mother is talking to me but I’m not actually
listening. I’m a little bit high on
morphine, a little bit queasy, and slightly terrified of this three year-old who refuses to look away. Just keeps glaring at me,
standing there with her little bald head, in her red and green outfit and
Christmas socks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny has blue eyes. She has no eyelashes. She has
no eyebrows. I think I spy a few sparse
blonde hairs on her head, but I dare not look away from her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
And so we stare,
challenging each other, daring the other to move. Little does she know I can hardly move anyway
because of the catheter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve decided I really like my catheter. I’ve befriended the catheter. It allows me to lie in bed and feel sorry for
myself all day long, living in my own mental shit-storm. I can stare out the window at the skyline, at
the wreath hanging on the other side of the building, at all the cars carrying
people who are going anywhere but here.
I can wallow all day...and I never have to get up to pee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s liberating.
I never realized how enslaved I was by my own bladder—by that great oppressor, the toilet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve decided I
think everyone needs to experience a good catheter once in their life, if only so
they can know the glorious phenomenon of drinking six glasses of OJ without
even the slightest pressure on the bladder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Disgusting and fantastic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
My mind is wandering back into pity mode. There are so many things to cry
about—anything really, from the pain to the suddenly very real concept of my own
mortality.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Just as I think I might roll over and stare pathetically
out the window for a little while, Penny makes a sudden move of the arm and I
snap out of it. She dangles a string of
beads in front of my face. She made it
for me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s a bracelet, but not really because it’s actually just a string of rainbow colored beads on a frayed black string knotted at both
ends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s my Christmas present.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny hasn’t stopped staring at me. I cock my head to the side and reach for the
beads. A non-verbal agreement has been
made.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Touche, Penny. I
accept. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
My extended
family and some friends visit me in the hospital and bring Christmas
presents. They smile but the smiles seem
horribly out of place. There’s no
masking this. There’s no rose-colored glasses. This shit is real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Before they arrived, I dolled myself up for the first time since I'd been here. I put on eye-shadow, mascara, lipstick…studied my face and pretended that just for a moment I was the same girl I’d been a month ago. Then I brushed my hair for both the first time in days and the last time for a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
tell them all about my catheter and how much I like it, but I’m sure they
dismissed it as morphine-induced babbling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Later
on, I’m relieved that they’re gone--especially my friends. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m weak,
that I’m capable of crying, of being scared; if they stayed too long, they were
bound to find out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
must’ve noticed it right away. I know
she did. She was tough as nails, this
three year-old and she could smell my weakness, I was sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
hate my weakness, but I don’t care enough to change it. I still refuse to walk. There’s
no point. “Will you just walk to the end
of the hall? Will you walk to the
dayroom ? Will you literally take two steps outside the room?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
No. I won’t.
Stop. Asking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Mom
comes in with my apple juice. She’s
tired, I can tell. Mentally and
physically. Every once in a while she
looks around the room at the pukey walls and the buzzing machines and the two
bags of poison hanging from the medicine pole.
It hasn’t sunk in yet for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Dad
is watching TV in the chair next to me, and has been trying to keep me and my
sister laughing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
sister is mad about Christmas. She keeps
asking if we’ll have our own Christmas when we get home, with our Christmas
tree, and our stockings, and our own surroundings. Mom tells her yes, but I know that we won't feel like celebrating when we get home.
I haven’t even thought about home.
It requires thinking about life without my catheter and I’m not ready to accept it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Mom
puts a straw in the apple juice and holds it up to my lips. <span style="line-height: 200%;">My
lips are dry and cracked again and the straw feels funny against them.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I take one sip, then two, but refuse to have
too much at once.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I’ve heard about
chemo, I’ve heard about the puking, and I’ve vowed to keep my stomach as empty
as possible--against everyone's wishes.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">But the docs insisted I have apple juice and Miralax because apparently
bowel movements are a big deal here.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">They’re
the cancer equivalent of a touchdown.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Unfortunately the catheter isn’t equipped for that.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">A serious flaw in my new friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Mom
sits down on the empty bed next to mine—the first time she’s attempted to relax
all day. She takes off her sneakers and
puts her feet up. She’s trying to look
comfortable but I know she’s far from it.
She smiles at me, but it takes effort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Isn’t
that Penny adorable?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“She
doesn’t like me,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“She’s
three years old. She doesn’t know what
she likes.” Dad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“She
stared at me the whole time like I was a disgrace to cancer patients
everywhere.” I knew, of course, that at
three she was incapable of making a judgment of this sort, but I couldn’t shake
the feeling that I’d let this little girl down.
That she’d expected to meet someone like her—someone courageous and
playful, and above her disease—only older and braver. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But
I was older and pathetic. Pitiful,
really, lying their basking in my catheterization and self-loathing, playing the poor little victim.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I know why she was staring at you,” Mom says.
“Her mother told me out in the day room.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Told
you what?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“When
they left our room, Penny asked her mother why she didn’t have pretty hair like
yours. She was mesmerized by it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
hair? Penny was staring at me because
she wanted my hair? So she wasn’t
condemning me for being a self-pitying martyr with no balls?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
There
was a strange silence in the room. I picked
up the string of beads from the bedside tray where I'd left them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I began to cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“It’ll
grow back, honey. It’ll grow back when
you beat this.” But I wasn’t crying
about the hair. I wasn’t crying about
the cancer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
don’t know what I was crying about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
pain is gone. They’ve taken away my
catheter. They say I don’t need it. My condition is improving quite rapidly, and
the tumor isn’t pressing on my nerves anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s been three weeks
since I started chemo, and I’m back for more; but this time, I don’t have the
luxury of my own room. This time I have
a roommate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
is in the cubby across from me, where she’s been since Christmas. Where she’s been for over six weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Penny likes Dora the Explorer. Penny likes Dora the Explorer <i>a lot</i>.
It plays on her TV from early in the morning until late at night, and
since I still refuse to leave the room, I’ve learned a lot of Spanish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Duerme”
means sleep, which is all I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
And
while I “duerme”, my “familia” plays with Penny in the dayroom. Penny balances toys on her head. She tells you where to put your pieces in
Candyland. She cheats at cards. All this I’ve heard, but don’t know firsthand
because I never stop sleeping and I’m still afraid of Penny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But
this particular afternoon, I’ve been puking like a fiend, and am unable to
sleep. Mom has gone to the nurse’s desk
to see if my anti-nausea meds have arrived, and Dad is home with my
sister. I’m alone, for the moment. “Dora” is not playing across the room, so I
assume that I’m truly alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I’m
wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Out
of nowhere, Penny’s bald head peeks around the curtain. She glances briefly over her shoulder to make
sure her mother isn’t there to stop her, then tiptoes to my bed. There’s a band-aid on her forehead and one on
her elbow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What are <i>you </i>doing?” she demands<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
smile. “Throwing up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“From
my treatment.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
my cancer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Silence. She leans on the bed, and the movement of the
mattress makes my stomach churn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Where’s
your hair?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
heart drops. It’s only been a week since
we shaved it off. I forget that it’s gone
sometimes, until I run my fingertips along the rough skin on my scalp. I refuse to look in the mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
lost it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“From
my treatment.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“For
my cancer.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Silence. I’m sensing a pattern. She’s reminded me of my bald head but I’m not
mad. I smile at her. Penny smirks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Just
then her mother returns, and tells her to stop bothering me. I say it’s no problem, but Penny’s mother
knows I’ve been throwing up all morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
She
and Penny return to the cubby and I hear a “Dora” episode begin on the TV.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
A nurse comes in
and asks Penny if she would please have some water, some Kool-Aid,
something. Anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“She
hasn’t had anything to drink today. Her
counts are coming up, and she’s ready to go home soon—but if she doesn’t have
something to drink, we’ll have to put her on fluids, and she’ll be here another
couple of days.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
still refuses. Her mother implores her
to have just a sip of her Kool-Aid but she won’t budge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
consider going back to sleep, since it’s been a good fifteen minutes since my
last hurl. My eyes are heavy and I know
that as soon as I close my eyes I’ll be out like a light. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
But
all at once, I’m pressing the button for the nurse. When she arrives she’s surprised to see me
awake, and I ask her if she can bring my Snapple from the fridge in the day
room—my Snapple and a paper cup with ice.
She smiles, glad that I’ve decided to rejoin the land of the living,
even if it’s only for something to drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Penny!”
I call out. I’m surprised by the sound
of my own voice, which hasn’t been raised above a pathetic croak in weeks. I still feel like shit, and want nothing more
than to go back to sleep, but something stops me. Something is different.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
scurries over to my bedside, and I sit up.
I realize she’s never seen me sitting up before, only lying down,
wallowing in my self-pity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What?”
she demands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
don’t want anything to drink?” Penny
shakes her head ‘no,’ just as the nurse returns with my Snapple. She sets it on my tray and I begin to pour it
into the paper cup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
watches me with sheer curiosity. This is
the most movement, the most speaking, the most interaction we’ve had, and she’s
seems taken aback.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“That’s
too bad,” I say. “Because I was going to
bet you that I could drink this Snapple faster than you can drink your
Kool-Aid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny’s
eyes grow wide and she shakes her head furiously. “No you can’t!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Hmmm. I’ll bet I can.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Penny
is across the room and back in less than ten seconds, cup in hand, Kool-Aid
spilling out the top. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We
stare each other down one last time.
This time the playing field is different. We’re two baldies in this crazy cancer game
together. We’re equals. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
We’re
warriors.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On
the count of three, we tip back our cups.
I sip mine slowly and Penny drinks hers fast, eyes still locked on mine. She slams her cup down victoriously, and
crosses her arms, proud of her win. She
grins, and her teeth are stained red with Kool-Aid.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“TOLD
you!” she gloats. “Now what?!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,”
I glance over my shoulder at my pillow, tempted to slip back into my
denial-sleep. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look back at Penny and sigh. “I hear you cheat at cards.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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HOPE YOU ENJOYED! </div>
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<br /></div>
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JESSE</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>PS>>OMG JODI ARIAS, RIGH!??????????????????</b></div>
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-46047322232498098252013-05-16T18:18:00.001-07:002013-05-16T18:18:43.395-07:00Twenty-Five Things RebootedRecently, when I was on facebook at 3 am wondering how I had become an internet-facebook-stalking statistic, I cam across this little ditty I had so eloquently composed a month and a half after I began chemotherapy. It is a note titled, "25 Things--Because I Know You Guys Are All Nosy About What's Going on in My New Fun-Filled Life". It was back when everyone was posting notes called "25 things" <b>under the assumption that people wanted to get to read twenty five things about them because apparently we're all so interestin</b>g. I jumped on this bandwagon, clearly, as I still assume I'm super interesting. <b>I might be a sociopath, I dunno, I'm looking into it.</b><br />
<br />
If you're interested in reading the note, by all means go ahead. It drips with self-pity and mean-spirited quips. <br />
<br />
So I decided today that I would re-do the twenty five things, with a focus on non-cancer things. <b>Because as much as cancer is a part of me, it is not who I am.</b> By reading this blog, you get 95% cancer-Jesse and only 5% real Jesse. <br />
<br />
Here we go.<b> It's not too late to stop reading.</b><br />
<br />
1. I absolutely love serial-killer shows. Y'know like those documentary shows about murder and DNA and stuff like that? When I was in middle school my second choice dream job (second to being Kristin Chenoweth) was to be a DNA specialist and work on crimes. I like to fall asleep to these shows because it makes me feel safe, because I like to tell myself that I'm safe in my bed and not getting murdered by Ed Gein. I dunno. Like I said, I might be a sociopath. <b> But I won't kill anyone, I promise.</b><br />
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2. This might sound obvious, since I've been writing this blog for almost a year, but I love to write. I've always had a knack for it, but it got overshadowed by my musical theater goals. Recently, I took up an English minor, and am really enjoying writing short stories, and short plays. I'm 85% finished with my first full-length play based on my experiences. (KEYWORD=BASED, because there are aspects of the story that are NOT AT ALL based on my own experiences). I'm planning on giving it a go in NY after I graduate in December of 2013, but am also considering grad school for play writing (but not for a long, long time since I'm poor).<br />
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3. I love dogs. I know everyone says they love dogs, <b>but I also enjoy creating personalities and voices for every dog I meet and they are usually spot on, you can ask my boyfriend.</b><br />
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4. On that topic, I've been dating my current boyfriend Matt since January 23rd, 2012, <b>and I love him verrrrry much.</b><br />
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<br />
5. I have one sister named Jackie who I've written about before. She's 17, stunning, and multi-talented and she just might have to give me a kidney which she's already agreed to <b>SO YOU CAN'T TAKE IT BACK JACKIE.</b><br />
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6. <b> <u>I'm waiting for the comeback of Gigapets</u>.</b><br />
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7. People always ask me what my favorite musical is, and being in theater school has made me feel like it's a crime to love this musical. But I'm not ashamed. My favorite musical is The Phantom of the Opera and I'll defend it to the death. It was the first big musical I saw that I can remember. I was 10, and knew then and there when those candelabras rose from the stage that I wanted to be a performer. I was also so devastated by the ending that I took my mom's cassette recordings into my bedroom and played the ending over and over again while I cried for hours and hours. <b>I still do that sometimes. I'm very sensitive.</b><br />
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8. My favorite book is a <i>Tale of Two Cities</i>, and I know it sounds like I'm being pretentious, but if you haven't read it, it's probably a free ebook, so you should get it. Sit down in a quiet area because you will really need to focus--<b>but it will change your life.</b> Give it a chance.<br />
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9. I LOVE reality TV. The more ridiculous the better. <b>My role model is Asia from Dance Moms.</b><br />
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10. I work at The Limited and I get an employee discount which is extremely difficult in its temptation to just buy everything in sight.<br />
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11. I hate <i>Harry Potter</i>. That's all I'm gonna say about that.<br />
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12. I liked <i>Twilight</i> before the film industry destroyed it. It is my personal opinion that Twilight should have just been a single book. No series. No movies. Just the first book. Because I really enjoyed the first book and I'm not afraid to say it.<br />
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13. Matt has been trying to get me into <i>Doctor Who</i>, but I'm really on the fence so far.<br />
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14. <i> Tabatha's Salon Takeover</i> and <i>Tabatha Takes Over</i> are the greatest shows on television.<br />
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15. <b> I'm also writing an autobiographical collection of short stories called "Shit That Happened to Me Once". I'm going to be posting one of the stories on here next week!</b><br />
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16. I don't watch Glee or SMASH (even though Andy Mientus is on SMASH and I love him and I hope he's having lots of fun). Don't assume that all theater peeps watch them. We get enough theatrics in our daily lives. <b>Nothing against them. I'm sure they're great.</b><br />
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17. I'm a <i>Hunger Games</i> fan only via the movie. Never read the books, no intention of reading the books. But I'm excited for the next movies.<br />
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18. My favorite favorite favorite short story is "The Rememberer" by Aimee Bender. Google it, you can probably find it online. It's amazing.<br />
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19. I miss Amy Winehouse every day. I love her. I also listen to Marina and the Diamonds and One Republic.<br />
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20. My favorite movie of all time is <i>Heathers</i>. It's on netflix, go watch it.<br />
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21. After I saw <i>Super Size Me</i> I became disgusted with the fast food industry and decided to be vegan.<br />
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22. Just kidding. I love McDonalds and I love chicken nuggets and if that's what gave me cancer, so be it.<br />
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23. I have a terribly dark sense of humor if you couldn't tell.<br />
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24. After wearing wigs for a year, I get bored with my hair every 2 months and change it.<br />
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25. I like to think I'm a good time.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
So there ya go. 25 things about me. If you read them all, KUDOS.<br />
<br />
I'm not all that interesting...<br />
<br />
Which is why I'm asking for some help. I could write endlessly about everything I think about cancer and about the world and about my post-cancer world. But I'm curious to know what people think about my blog and what they'd like to have me talk about. I was trying to figure out a way to get an anonymous/private question box thing going but I gave up because it was too hard. Which in and of itself is quite ironic.<br />
<br />
SO.<br />
I'm asking you.<br />
<br />
Please don't be shy and email me questions, suggestions, etc. I will keep them private!<br />
jessepardee@gmail.com<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>---*<u>If anyone wants to sell me a Gigapet, I'm interested</u>.*--</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I'll be writing on Mondays again now that it's summer and stuff. So yeah. Keep reading, folks, I haven't given up on this thing yet.<br />
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<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-57022840979296712192013-05-07T21:00:00.002-07:002013-05-07T21:22:46.449-07:00Fighting for a Cure vs. Fighting CancerHi friends. I'm sorry. It's been awhile. Finals week(s). You understand. <b> For some reason I'm really feeling these short, broken up sentences.</b> Except for that last one. I used a comma. It wasn't short. I'm sorry. I'm feeling tired. I'm not quite up for this right now. But I feel like a bad blogger for disappearing on you, and so here I am. Hopefully, as the post progresses, the sentences will become longer and more well thought out. I guarantee you nothing. <b> I'm not your puppet.</b> I've always wanted to say that.<br />
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Right now I'm watching <i>Bob's Burgers</i>. It's really funny. <b>I knew what I was going to write about but then I started getting distracted by this show because it makes me laugh while simultaneously making me extremely uncomfortable.</b> I dunno, I think that's quite an accomplishment.<br />
<br />
I guess it kind of leads into my topic for today (not really, but bear with me) which is something that makes me super uncomfortable on two levels. The event makes me uncomfortable, for one thing. But I am also very uncomfortable with expressing my dislike for this event <b>because I feel like people want to crucify me and jump down my throat about it. </b> But here we go. I'm just going to say it:<br />
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<b><u>I do not like the Relay for Life.</u></b></div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
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I don't. I super super super <b>DON'T</b>.</div>
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NOW--hear me out before you throw your laptop or monitor or phone or tablet or any device used for viewing the internet across the room, <b>because I know Relay for Life raises lots of money for cancer research and that many people enjoy it and feel that its a wonderful organization. </b> And don't get me wrong, <b>any organization that raises money for research and cancer awareness is great, and I appreciate it for that.</b></div>
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But let me tell you a little story. A few months after I finished my treatment, I went to a meeting for Relay for Life because my family and I wanted to give back and do something for the cancer community. We sat down, and a woman told everyone who was a cancer survivor to stand up. Several people around me who knew who I was (<b>since apparently everyone in the CNY area heard about Jesse Pardee, Cancer Extraordinaire</b>), stared at me expectantly, smiling, WILLING me to stand up. But I didn't want to. </div>
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It's like this: I have this jaded perception of the world around me, and I felt like I was joining some sort of freak show by standing up. Because you have to admit--no matter how you view yourself and the world around you--that when a whole bunch of people who had a deadly disease stand up in a room, a part of you goes "Ooooh, ahhh, sucks to be them." Maybe you talk that part of you away. Maybe it manifests as "wow, how horrible for them", or "oh dear, poor thing". <b>Regardless. You do.</b></div>
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At this point in my recovery, I was tired of being identified by my cancer. <b>SO the fact that the Relay meeting was asking that I stand up, thus exposing one of the most personal, raw, and f**ked up parts of my life to a room full of strangers to gawk at really irked me.</b> AGAIN--I know that many of you are thinking "They wanted to celebrate you!" I understand where you're coming from. But you're not me,<b> and this is my account. So shush. </b>This is Jesse's account of things--Jesse, who had her own personal battle with cancer and is the only one who knows how she feels and thinks. Jesse, who will cease to speak in third person NOW. </div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b> It's my unique perspective. So don't freak out on me.</b></div>
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Then we watched a film about past accomplishments of the Relay for Life. And they were impressive. <b>The first few times around.</b> But the more and more things progressed, the more it felt like everyone was just giving each other a big pat on the back for...for what? And then they told us: Relay for Life, and all of its participants--were fighting cancer. No, not "fighting for a cure". Not "fighting for change", "fighting for answers", "fighting for progress"---THESE were not the terms used. </div>
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<b>The term used was fighting cancer.</b></div>
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Wait. What? <i>Who</i> was fighting cancer? </div>
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Peeps, this is where I gotta become a crazy cancer bitch for a second, and stand up for my cancer brethren. <b>Walking around a track for twelve hours is not "fighting cancer."</b></div>
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THE FOLLOWING PEOPLE FIGHT CANCER:</div>
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*The little girl in the Dora the Explorer Pajamas puking in a little pink bin fights cancer.</div>
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*The Mom who washes your wigs in the sink, conditions them, and buys wig heads and wig stands for you fights cancer.</div>
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*The girls who has a fake prom and takes pictures on the hospital staircase fights cancer.</div>
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*The boy who can't play with the neighborhood kids because he has low platelets today fights cancer.</div>
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*The woman who has her breasts removed and feels like she's been stripped of her womanhood fights cancer.</div>
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*The man who jokes around about having one testicle even though it really emasculates him and makes him feel self conscious fights cancer.</div>
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*The boyfriend who sits by your side watching Family Guy day in and day out while all of his and your friends continue on with their lives and stop inviting you places fights cancer.</div>
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*The man who chooses to stop treatment and live out the rest of his days to the fullest, fights cancer.</div>
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It's the victims. It's the caretakers. It's the people who face the disease head on--<b>the people who have everything to lose--THEY FIGHT CANCER.</b></div>
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<u>You can fight for a cure. You can fight for awareness. You can fight for progress, for research, for change...but if you don't have that disease wreaking havoc on your body, within your CLOSE loved one...you're not fighting cancer.</u></div>
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<br />
Maybe you disagree with me. You probably do. But that's how I feel. <b>I fought cancer, and it was an experience that anyone who hasn't had cancer could never, ever understand.</b></div>
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We cancer patients don't have a lot that we'd like to brag about. Being a survivor is great, sure, but at what cost? Let us have this: </div>
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<b>WE FIGHT CANCER.</b></div>
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Needless to day, after that meeting, I was really upset and angry. I cried for awhile. My family got kind of mad at me. They thought I was being totally unfair in my assumptions and I admit that I probably am. I can see why people want to do something, why people want to help. <b>I really can.</b> I just feel like to say you fought cancer--<b>man you gotta really earn it.</b> Because when you actually have cancer, <b>you really are fighting with every fiber of your being. It's absolute hell. It's truly a personal war.</b></div>
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As you might have guessed I decided then that the Relay for Life wasn't for me. </div>
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Ultimately, I decided that being active wasn't for me. Not yet. I needed time to settle.</div>
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I made some appearances at the local Relay to sing the National Anthem, and to help a close family friend with cancer. </div>
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But I never stay. I could never participate. Because to me---it's a social event. A social event with disturbing posters to remind you why you're there as you chat with your friends walking around a track. Signs that offer facts about all the possible cancers that you could get. Feeling tired? Take a little break and read about throat cancer! Got a free moment? Look at this information about mouth cancer! </div>
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I will say, the ceremony is beautiful. I'll give them that.</div>
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But I dunno folks. I respect y'all for doing Relay, but I don't get it. No matter what people say, I just don't. I know people like to feel like they're giving back--but one night a year? One night a year and a video claiming "you fought cancer"? That's not fair. At the event I attended, someone said over the loudspeakers that when you're in the middle of the relay and it's four in the morning and you're tired, and want sleep...you know the struggle of a cancer patient.</div>
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<b><u>Oh hell, no you don't.</u></b></div>
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<b>I obviously don't need to reiterate my point that I don't like the Relay for Life</b>. I respect what it's accomplished, and its intentions. But if you really wanna make a difference--if you really want to help out in the cancer community, don't walk around a track for one night a year and call it "fighting cancer."</div>
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I'm sorry folks. But it's that time of year, and it's something that really bugs me. This is my blog. These are my opinions. I hope you'll respect them, and know that these are only my personal feelings, and no mean comments or retaliatory remarks will change them. I have a right to feel this way, and you have a right to disagree. <b>But do it on your own blog. This one's mine. </b> </div>
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Hope I didn't gain any enemies from this post. I know many people who really love the Relay and that's fine. But I promised to be honest with this blog.</div>
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<b>And so, ladies and gents, I give you honesty.</b></div>
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Jesse</div>
Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-46469454345438898762013-04-14T21:04:00.002-07:002013-04-14T21:32:48.755-07:00To be (cancerous)...or not to be (cancerous)<b>Ladies and Gentlemen....it is time to PANIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The day is almost here--the day when we find out just how cancerous I am...or am not (grammar???)<br />
<br />
Listen up.<br />
I had a dream last night. A dream that reminded me that I can never get too comfortable, <b>because my body is a freaking landmine.</b><br />
<br />
In said dream, I was sitting in a Wal Mart (yes, sitting) on the floor in front of some display. Now, if I had simply been sitting in Wal Mart in front of a shelf, I would not have been able to make any sense of the dream. But in the dream, I was bald. Not only was I bald, <b>but I was wearing my blue dress. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>The</i><b> </b>blue dress!<b> The SUNY Upstate-ugly-bald-chick-radiation-burn-chemo-vomit-sleepy-oxycodone-kidneyfunction-injection-fritos-pizza-nurses-nerfgun-hospital-smelly-get-out-of-my-room-I'm-too-old-to-trick-or-treat-around-the-cancer-ward-blue dress.</b><br />
<br />
It wasn't really a dress so much as it was like...<b>a nasty nightgown type thing that you could pass off as a dress for someone who has no fashion sense whatsoever. </b><br />
<br />
I had the dress in blue and yellow. I can't remember which came first, the blue or the yellow, but I remember my mom asking me if I'd like her to pick up another one, because it worked so perfectly in the hospital. It hung low enough that my port was easily accessible, and didn't stick to the tape on my chest, or cause it to peel. It was easy to maneuver around tubes and medicine poles, didn't irritate my skin, and was very convenient when the nurse came in every two hours to make me take a leak. <b>You see what I mean. </b><br />
<br />
When I finished chemo, I told my mom that the dresses needed to go. <b>They were so depressing, and not conducive to a girl who is trying to pretend that the past year of her life didn't happen. </b> So they were disposed of post haste.<br />
<br />
But apparently, my subconscious remembers them well. Because in the midst of final exams, final performances, final presentations, my brain reminded me that it's about that time again...<b><u>it's scannin' time bitches!!!!</u></b><br />
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The dream makes sense. The blue dress, the bald head, the Wal Mart (I have a ritual the night before scans--my mom gives me twenty bucks and I go explore Wal Mart...gets my mind off things)--<b>a brilliant reminder from my subconscious that its time to start panicking! </b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5GkRJBrNJSMhIuYAlZv9jT4AKwbyLu2ivUFp0z1rxjFfhZTh-vwXHMsd5_Y7T40Ghb0-TRo5_2pai25bo_cpmEFotc44vm-Iqm4LgPo0rQbuDyAVEOWmkWpxkqMN_O5w9sNqWDrj3RQ/s1600/crab.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5GkRJBrNJSMhIuYAlZv9jT4AKwbyLu2ivUFp0z1rxjFfhZTh-vwXHMsd5_Y7T40Ghb0-TRo5_2pai25bo_cpmEFotc44vm-Iqm4LgPo0rQbuDyAVEOWmkWpxkqMN_O5w9sNqWDrj3RQ/s320/crab.png" width="320" /></a><br />
Now, the most rational way of dealing with scannin' time is to look at the facts:<br />
*I feel fine! (and I'm sexayyyyy!)<br />
*No pain.<br />
*Hips doing fine.<br />
*Bruising down to a minimum.<br />
*Stronger than I've been in a long time.<br />
*Pooping normally (the most important aspect of them all)<br />
<br />
Reason would tell us that there's no reason to worry, right?<br />
<br />
<b>WRONG!</b><br />
<br />
Over the next few weeks, I will look for as many reasons, signs, omens, etc, that my cancer is back,<b> because it is clearly the most reasonable thing to do.</b> By the time I get to the doctors, I will be so thoroughly convinced that I've relapsed that any other result will be utterly shocking! <br />
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You see, <b>I have to convince myself the cancer is back.</b> It's the only mechanism I have for getting myself through the crazy interim waiting period between now and my scans.<br />
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It works like this: In my brain, I say "Jesse...it's bad news. The cancer is back." <br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I have to expect the worst...it's in my nature...I'm a pessimistic, angry, easily annoyed, frustrated bitch.</b><br />
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In this case however, I find that it works to my advantage. It forces me to examine how I would deal with things if the cancer is back---and also helps me realize that it wasn't all bad:<br />
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*My family was closer than ever. </div>
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*I got to eat whatever I wanted.</div>
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*I got lots of time to read and write.</div>
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*Showering took less than a minute.</div>
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*No shaving required.</div>
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*Always had an excuse to take a nap.</div>
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*I met some of the most selfless people.</div>
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*I had a very wise sense of perspective, which I easily lose sight of now that I'm "normal."</div>
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I have to admit--it wasn't all bad. <b>Just mostly bad.</b><br />
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Once I remember these few good aspects, I know I can handle anything--either outcome.<br />
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----->If there's no sign of cancer--amazing! I'm a lucky, lucky girl.<br />
----->If there is...DING DING DING! bring it the f*** on. <b>Round 2 bitches, here we go.</b> Because the truth of the matter is, I can do it again. <br />
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And what choice would I have? It's something I think that only people who've been seriously ill could ever understand. People say to us "you're so strong, you're so brave." But there is no other choice. You just do it. The doctor says chemo, and you get chemo. The radiologist says radiation, you do radiation. The nephrologist says kidney transplant, you beg your sister for her kidney. There's never really this ultimate inner debate that people assume you have. <b>There's not usually a point when you say "I choose to be strong."</b> You just do it.<br />
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I guess in actuality I'm just preparing myself for the worst. Is it a fool-proof method? Probably not. <b>It'll still be devastating if there's bad news. </b><b>But at least I've prepared myself. I know what to cling to, I've thought it all through. </b><br />
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Just when you think everything's fine and dandy, you dream about a blue dress and everything's crazy again. <b>Everybody has their cross to bear, and this is mine. </b><br />
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Life sucks. It's true. Everyday is just a new set of hours in which we all just deal--some days are better than others, some easier, some harder...<br />
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<b>Good or bad...we deal. (drugs)</b><br />
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Just kidding, I don't deal drugs.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-73652790851509002062013-04-08T20:15:00.002-07:002013-04-08T20:21:39.827-07:00Confessions of a Disgruntled Second Grade Future Cancer Survivor<b>The following passages were found in a red composition notebook in the basement of Jesse's house. The words (spelling, capitalization, and punctuation) appear EXACTLY as they are in the document--they have not been altered.</b><br />
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<b>They are published here for your entertainment. And if you pay attention, you might just learn something from them...but probably not. </b><br />
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<b>I give you:</b><br />
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<b><u>Confessions of a Disgruntled Second Grade Future Cancer Survivor</u></b></div>
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September 18, 1998</div>
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<i>My favorite time of the day is dinner. I do it with my family. </i>END OF ENTRY</div>
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-----------------------><b>Fatty.</b></div>
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September 25, 1998</div>
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<i>My favorite clothes to were are my blak pants and my purpul shirt. I got it at the gap. I wear it to school. It is a nice outfit. </i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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September 28, 1998</div>
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<i>Usually I am happy in the morning first I get dressed. Next I eat breakfast. Finally I go.</i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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---------------------------------><b>Glad we got that cleared up.</b></div>
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October 7, 1998</div>
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I would never play with maches or lighters. Why? because you could get really hert. So never touch enyting that can case a fire. END OF ENTRY</div>
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October 15, 1998</div>
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<i>We watched a movie called Miss Nelson is missing. It's about a very noisy class. Our class is noisy I am somtimes I talk with my nibor but I get quieter. Even no wear noisy I like school. </i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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---------------><b>My talking with my "nibor" I meant plotting with the person who sat next to me about ways to get the girl who sat across from us in trouble (Sorry Britt.)</b></div>
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November 5, 1998</div>
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<i>When the rain hits my face I think it feels like cold snow hitting my face. </i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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-------------------------><b>I was always very intuitive.</b></div>
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December 2, 1998</div>
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<i>My least favorite food is limae beans. I throgh up. But my dad made me eat them once. </i>END OF ENTRY</div>
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--------------------><b>He said we wouldn't go to the mall until I had a bite. Meanest father.</b></div>
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January 8, 1999</div>
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<i>Last year I got a spice girls watch. And when I brought it out for play everyone wanted to play spice girls. And two peopole wanted to be baby spice. Then everyone started quitting. And all Who was left was my friend Amber. We were really mad at eahother. But we made up. </i>END OF ENTRY</div>
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----------------------><b>Amber, if you're reading this, thanks for sticking around til the end! I know how overwhelming that game could get.</b></div>
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February 4, 1999</div>
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<i>This month you should be honest and truthfull to all. It sometimes is hard to tell the truth because your afraid you'll get in trouble. But sometimes when you tell the truth you won't get in trouble. The person will be greatfull you told the truth.</i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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February 10, 1999</div>
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<i>I had a poptart a big glass of mdecided to wear my teddy bear sweater and my bellbottom jeans with the black stripe down the middell and then I washed my face. </i>END OF ENTRY</div>
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------------------------------><b>Those bell bottoms were the shit. I was all about bell bottoms.</b></div>
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March 10, 1999</div>
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<i>Dinosaurs have been around about 200 years ago. No people were around by that time. Some people think they just got old and died. </i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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-----------------------------><b>This is the most brilliant thing I've ever said.</b></div>
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March 15, 1999</div>
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<i>I had a GREAT sunday. It was my birthday. I had 5 favorite presents. One was a secret diary, It's like a computer diary. It's really neat. Another one was a flashlight fun Stacie and pooh doll. The flashlight really works. And this art set it's called Thumthings. And a thing were you paint frams. And the last one was a little baby dressed as a bunny</i>. END OF ENTRY</div>
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March 24, 1999</div>
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<i>My best singer is Brittany Spears. She sings, Baby one more time. She is a good singer.</i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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May 3rd, 1999</div>
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<i>My mom went to NYCity. I went to the carnival with my sister and my dad. We all went on Spin the Apple, the Fun Slide, and all sorts of things. Then that night my mom came home. She bough me a beanie baby and cats cradle. </i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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May 17, 1999</div>
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<i>On Saturday I went to my friends new house. We played in the fort. We saw a real rabbit <u>hole</u>. And a dead pig barried in leaves. And on Sunday my dad brought me to the store and gave me a choice. I could get the beanie baby Kicks or the Hope. I got Hope. I really like it. The end.</i> END OF ENTRY</div>
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-------------------------------------><b>I haven't seen a dead pig in my entire life.</b></div>
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May 24th, 1999</div>
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<i>It is a cloudy day. We will go outside for play. I hope it rains in the evening. The flowers need rain so they can grow. They also need </i> END OF ENTRY </div>
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-------------------------------------------------------><b>WHAT ELSE DO THEY NEED???</b>???</div>
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June 1st, 1999</div>
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<i>On momorial day at 18:15 AM My dog had a baby. I named the baby Bouncer. And I march in the parade with my soccer team. It was lots of fun. </i>END OF ENTRY</div>
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---------------------------------><b>I didn't have a dog until I was 18, and never went by military time.</b></div>
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Love</div>
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This Bitch</div>
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-76303215061170686332013-03-31T22:28:00.002-07:002013-03-31T22:28:28.356-07:00Carnival by Paris HiltonHi everyone! Happy Easter to all!<br />
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I hope all your Easter dreams came true and stuff. Maybe you colored eggs for no apparent reason. Never really understood the fascination with coloring eggs. Or hiding them. Or eggs and Easter in general. I'm not religious but I can't imagine Jesus had eggs when he came back. He probably had a lot of stuff to do, <b>and if he was gonna eat anything why would it be brightly colored eggs. </b> I dunno why.<br />
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But I digress.<br />
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This weekend my boyfriend and I packed up the car at 7 am Saturday morning and trekked to Syracuse for Easter with my family and it was a loverrrly time. I don't know why but for some reason, the first thing I like to do when I come home is take a shower. There's something about taking a shower in your own home that is just sooooo comforting and I smelled like shit anyways. So that's what I did. And I'm sure you're like...ohhhkay thanks for sharing,<b> it's really comforting that you're clean. </b><br />
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But I found myself in a bit of a dilemma as I was getting all primped and refreshed afterward. Ever since chemo, I've had a very keen sense of smell, and for that reason, I have a wide array of perfumes at my house...in Pittsburgh. I really don't like not having perfume on, because even my own scent can sometimes be overwhelming (even with deodorant on). Not that I smell bad but you know...<b>I just like to smell good.</b> <br />
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But there was only one bottle of perfume at my house in Syracuse,<b> and there's a reason that this particular bottle stays at my house in Syracuse. </b> The perfume is called Carnival by Paris Hilton. It's a really beautiful scent. I thought so ever since I received it. <b>For my 18th birthday. In the hospital on 7H. </b><br />
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I liked it so much, that one day when I went in for a treatment, I sprayed my entire cubby with it. <br />
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My roommate that day was a girl named Robin, who had leukemia. I asked Robin if she would mind if I sprayed the bathroom with the perfume, because I would feel better about using the disgusting hospital bathroom if I knew it smelled okay. Robin didn't mind.<br />
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Robin didn't mind a lot of things. She didn't mind--err, well, I'm sure inside she did mind, but never let on--the fact that her cancer required a treatment that kept her in the hospital for months at a time. In fact, if I remember correctly, Robin was diagnosed in the beginning of March 2009, and this particular occasion was late April, and<b> Robin had not yet been home from the hospital since initial admittance. </b>We had been roommates before. I remember I was on the floor getting platelets one Saturday when they told me another seventeen year old had been diagnosed. The following day, I went out to Target and bought her a Caboodles case and filled it with make-up, explaining to her that in my first weeks of treatment, I felt like absolute shit--what with the hair gone, including the fine hairs on my face (which, without those hairs, one looks like a dried out fruit), all of my skin dry, my body bruising with the slightest nudge and the all-too-true fact that when you feel like shit, you don't really shower as much as you should. My note to her said I'd included some lotions, eye makeup, lip gloss, nail polish, and other beauty supplies<b> to help her still feel like a seventeen year old girl, and not a sickly fixture of the pediatric oncology ward.</b> I actually think my gesture helped me more than it helped her. For me, it was an acknowledgement that I was adjusting, that I was getting through, and that I could show others the way. Haha "the way." <b> I'm like a cancer prophet.</b><br />
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So on this particular occasion, Robin and I were already well acquainted, and with her blessing, I drenched the bathroom in Carnival. <b>DRENCHED.</b> Everythinggggg smelled like Carnival. Paris Hilton would've been proud. Proud or disgusted. I dunno. <b>To be honest I don't really care what she thinks since she can't get out of car without a crotch-shot being taken. </b><br />
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It was springtime, and Robin was allowed to go outside to the courtyard and get fresh air, which she did every chance she got. She and her boyfriend would wait until whatever medication or chemo she was getting was done dripping, call a nurse to disconnect her from the medicine-pole (or as I lovingly nicknamed, stripper-pole), and go outside to streak the sidewalks in chalk, and watch the stoplights. She'd be out there for hours at a time. Her mother took power-walks around the block, and would bring us pizza from Varsity on the SU hill, and always asked what she could pick up from CVS for me (this particular week, my chemo-craving was Pringles).<br />
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<b>There's no real end or shape to this story.</b> It's really just a memory, but a vivid one, that I constantly have connected with the scent of Carnival by Paris Hilton. I haven't been able to wear the perfume since, because <u>I immediately think of Robin</u>.<br />
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<b>Which totally wouldn't be a problem if life wasn't unfair.</b> <br />
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Robin, as I told you, was in the hospital for long periods of time, but her prognosis was a generally good one, or so I'd been told. It was just going to be a long road for her. But she dealt with it like a champ. One day, while I was in the hospital for a low-grade fever, Spybabies dress shop brought in several prom dresses for Robin to sort through and try on. Robin hung them from the curtain-rods on our windows. She wanted badly to be out of the hospital for prom, <b>but it wasn't a possibility for her</b>. She took it all in stride, though, and on prom night, got dressed up in the dress she'd chosen, and met her boyfriend at the top of the big staircase in the lobby of the hospital, and they took pictures. She rode her medicine pole up and down the ward like a scooter for entertainment, sat with the nurses til the early hours of the morning, and watched movies in the cubby across from me. The road was hard, but they were confident she'd make it.<br />
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And she didn't.<br />
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Maybe things with Robin weren't as promising as I'd realized. But the way I saw it, Robin and I both had cancers with a relatively good prognosis, and yet here I am. <b>And where is she?</b> <br />
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<i>Where had she been?</i><br />
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<i>Not</i> to the prom. <i> Not</i> to the movies on the weekends. <i>Not</i> to the school assemblies, <i>not</i> to the mall, <i>not</i> to the parties, <i>not</i> to the final exams. <b><i>Not here anymore.</i></b><br />
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All of those "<i>Nots</i>"...<br />
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I smell those "<i>Nots</i>" when I spray Carnival by Paris Hilton. All of them. I smell the "<i>Nots</i>", and I smell the prom dresses hanging in the window of our room, and I smell the chalk on the sidewalk at the hospital, and I smell the Varsity pizza and the pringles and the chemo and the Caboodles kit full of make-up and the bag of platelets I received when I first heard about Robin...<br />
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But this weekend, when I found myself confronted by the bottle of perfume, I sprayed it. On my wrists, on my neck, and then I held the bottle to my nose. Took a big ole whiff. Smelled all those things. And then it occurred to me: <b>I was always the person who could smell the "<i>Nots</i>".</b> The negatives, the bad parts. And Robin...well...if Robin came floating down to Earth and I sprayed Carnival by Paris Hilton, she wouldn't smell the "<i>Nots</i>." <br />
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<b>She would smell Carnival by Paris Hilton. Because it is what it is...</b><br />
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Does it make sense? I don't know. But when I closed my eyes and remembered her...I realized that Robin and her sunny demeanor, and her medicine-pole-scootering, <b>and her deal-with-it-as-it-comes attitude is something I want to be reminded of. <i>Always.</i></b><br />
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I just might wear Carnival everyday.Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-35370522184853527692013-03-25T14:34:00.001-07:002013-03-25T14:34:14.749-07:00Will.i.am and JESSE BITCH!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><em><u>It's my friggin 22nd birthday. Can I get what what</u></em>?</strong></div>
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Yay! I made it to 22! <strong>Oh, happy, happy day bitches!</strong> Yes, yes, today, the 25th of March is the day I was born in Syracuse, NY to two parents, neither one with a history of bone cancer and yet there you have it. </div>
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---->REGARDLESS. I was a special kid. <strong>By all definitions of the word 'special.' </strong></div>
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Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about Darwin (<strong>as one often does on their birthday</strong>), and his little theory about "survival of the fittest" or whatever that shit was. And I realized, that if we all lived in the wilderness and were monkeys or apes or what have you (like...we didn't have modern medicine and shit is what I'm trying to say),<strong> I would be dead</strong>.</div>
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And it's a funny phenomenon to think, on your birthday, that in survival-of-the-fittest-terms, you shouldn't be here...and yet you are! <strong>And it's like...this overwhelming sense of trickery</strong>. I tricked nature. I tricked the universe. It tried to pick me off, and yet <strong>here I am, turning 22, walking the streets of Pittsburgh with a plastic crown on my head eating Cadbury eggs!</strong> </div>
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Now, as I write this post, I think, "<em>you stupid bitch, you're going to walk outside and get hit by car just for saying all of that</em>"...<strong>and what if I did?</strong></div>
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SO. In honor of my 22nd birthday, here are <strong>22 significant things I would hope people remember about me if I walk outside and get hit by a Point Park shuttle.</strong> </div>
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Ahem. Here we go.</div>
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1) She had the best armpits, and everyone told her so. She'd smile modestly and say <strong>"it's the Old Spice."</strong></div>
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2) She could smell bad breath, McDonalds, or a fart a mile away. Best sense of smell I ever encountered in a gal. </div>
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3) She wrote in her blog that she'd stop licking the salt off the bottom of the plate, but alas, she never did. <strong>She was the saltiest old bitch that you ever did see.</strong></div>
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4) She, as a seventeen year old girl, managed to acquire a cancer that typically effects thirteen year old boys. <strong>What a wonder she was...</strong></div>
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5) She hated the sound of children screaming in Target so much that she'd stop frozen in the aisle until it stopped.</div>
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6) She predicted that Charlie and Marnie on <em>Girls</em> would be in love forever and get back together, <strong>and by god, she was right.</strong></div>
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7) Oh, boy, did she love Charlie from <em>Girls</em> and <strong>despise him for being a fictional character.</strong></div>
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8) She endorsed chemo as the best acne medicine, and no one can argue that it did wonders for her complexion even if it did wreak havoc on her kidneys and <span style="color: red;"><strong><u>destroy her soul.</u></strong></span></div>
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9) Jesse had the best sunglasses/frameless glasses collection of anyone who ever lived, and she didn't give a shit if they took up half her face.</div>
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10) She hated Harry Potter,<strong> and I think there's something to be said about that.</strong></div>
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11) <em>She could punch a mean hole in the door if need be.</em></div>
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12) Jesse had the best advice for constipation always.</div>
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13) Jesse loved a good poop joke, <strong>and is probably laughing in heaven with the poop gods.</strong></div>
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14) She never answered her texts because for <strong>THE LOVE OF GOD I'M DOING SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT.</strong></div>
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15) She never quite learned to use her iPhone, <em>and it was one of her best qualities.</em></div>
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16) That bitch had short hair one day, then long hair the next, then short, then long, and then <strong>goddamnit one day she just cut it all off.</strong></div>
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17) She knew an extensive amount about serial killers to the point where it was kind of scary because she fell asleep to BIO specials on Ed Gein.</div>
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<strong>18) <u>She never got over her initial attraction to the cartoon Peter Pan.</u></strong></div>
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19) Jesse could narrate the thoughts of the dogs and cats with impeccable insight.</div>
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20) She could perform Moritz Stiefel's pre-suicide monologue on cue.</div>
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21) <u><strong>She owned every decision and action she made.</strong></u></div>
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22) Jesse was a disgruntled little beyotch with a twisted sense of humor.</div>
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"So, what will I say? I'll tell them all, the angels, 'I got drunk in the snow! And sang...and played pirates.' I'll tell them, 'I'm ready now!' I'll be an angel." <-----BUT NOT YET BITCHES, I'M LIKE A COCKROACH, I WON'T DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE</div>
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----Moritz Stiefel (except for that last part)</div>
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Love,</div>
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Jesse, <strong>age 22</strong></div>
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-90627778732967899562013-03-16T13:59:00.002-07:002013-03-16T15:43:33.235-07:00I'm Back and Disgruntled-erHI.<br />
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For real though, I'm back now. <i>Chess</i> is over, and I've had a week to readjust to the typical daily college life: wake up, class, <b>maybe I sit on the bike in the gym and reluctantly move my legs</b>, more class, <b>Jodi Arias trial (crazy bitch, right?)</b>, sleep, and food sprinkled in somewhere. I dunno. You get the drift.<br />
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But I decided that during the weeks I am wayyyy too preoccupied with school to do this blog, so posting will now be sometime from Friday-Sunday. I mean it though.<b> I know I've pussed out before, but I'm really gonna post each weekend and try to think of things to say about shit.</b><br />
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<b>Omg I just got distracted for a few minutes because Jason DeRulo "Mmmm Whatcha Say" came on the radio, and then I had to go watch the SNL short Dear Sister. Go watch it. </b><br />
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I don't really have a specific topic in mind this week. I realized the other day that as I get further and further away from that disastrous year of my life, I become more and more disconnected with it. It's possibly one of the reasons I didn't make more of an effort to post in here while I was busy. <b>Once you get in the habit of blocking that shit out, you don't really want to write about it. </b>I get going and get busy and start to feel like a normal person again, and cancer continues to make less and less appearances in my daily thought-process.<br />
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Which is a good thing and a bad thing.<br />
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It's good because I'm not letting it drag me down and shit, and I'm becoming more and more adjusted to life without monthly doctor-monitoring. <br />
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It's bad because it's a part of who I am, and is still a big aspect of my life that other people associate with me. It's part of the reason why I stayed in my room with a book during my first two years of college. <b>People don't connect with me very well, and I realize it's because they don't know what to say.</b> I always preach in this blog about how people say stupid things to me all the time about cancer and death and stuff like that, and what I don't do a very good job of is trying to be understanding of how it feels to be my friend, acquaintance, what have you...because in this blog I'm always like <b>RAH RAH RAH I'm a cancer survivor, hear me roar, tremble at the thought of my giant tumor!</b><br />
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Ha. Anyway.<br />
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My very best friend is going through a health crisis not quite of a 'life-and-death' nature, but scary and upsetting nonetheless, and she often tells me that she doesn't want to be weak in front of me. <b>She sees what I've had to deal with, and tries not to complain about her struggles in front of me. This is a common problem I have with people. </b><br />
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I've come to the understanding, over these few years since cancer, that it is completely unfair of me to compare other people's problems to my own. <b>Easier said than done...</b><br />
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<b>Now hold on because I'm actually going to quote a book and shit and it's gonna get rulllll deep up in here but maybe a little off topic but who cares end of run on sentence.</b><br />
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I was reading a book by Aimee Bender, who's become one of my new favorite authors, called <i>The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.</i> And I came across a quote that summed up this abstract jealousy I had of other people when I was sick:<br />
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"It can feel so lonely, to see strangers out in the day, shopping, on a day that is not a good one. On this one: the day I returned from the emergency room after having a fit about wanting to remove my mouth. Not an easy day to look at people in their vivid clothes, in their shining hair, pointing and smiling at colorful woven sweaters.<br />
I wanted to erase them all. But I also wanted to be them all, and I could not erase them and want to be them at the same time."<br />
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When you're very sick,<b> you view everyone in the "outside world" as perfect.</b> You see people going about their daily routines and think how lucky they must be--<b>whatever their lives may contain</b>--to not be where you are. You'd give anything to be among them.<br />
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So when I first re-entered the "real world", I was finally going to "be among them". I had this mentality that because I was no longer in treatment, because I was "normal" again, that <b>all other problems would be easily fixable. And I was wrong. </b> I started having "normal people" problems again...and often found myself unable to keep them in perspective with what I went through. People go through terrible periods of their life, and <b>what might not seem so terrible to the "cancer survivor/patient," is life-changing and heart-breaking to someone else. </b>It's taken me some time to understand that. But I think I'm becoming better at it.<br />
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It's hard for me not to compare people's problems with my battle sometimes. I won't lie. <b>But I try, and believe it or not, really do understand deep down.</b><br />
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If you take anything from this post that has been really all over the place, let it be this: <b> I understand that not everyone has problems as serious as cancer. </b> I will not judge you, condemn you, or shame you for struggling with your own problems. You can tell me about them. I'll listen. Because while they might not seem as crucial to me, I can relate to feeling trapped by a shitty situation. <b>Suffering is the human condition after all.</b> Ghandi or Buddha or Lil Wayne said that shit I think.<br />
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I don't know if this post makes me seem more approachable. For the majority of these recovery years, I've kept most people at arms length, and really sheltered myself under the idea that no one will ever understand me. <b> But I'm at the stage in my recovery process where I'm ready to make more connections with people, and ready to be a more understanding person.</b><br />
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That being said, try to keep all your really trivial shit in perspective, because I'm not afraid to give you a reality slap. I said I'd be more understanding. <b> I didn't say I'd be any less disgruntled.</b><br />
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With that, Kelly Clarkson has come on the radio, and alas,<b> I must go turn it off.</b><br />
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Jesse<br />
<br />Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-77626842618519164572013-03-16T13:11:00.001-07:002013-03-16T13:11:41.924-07:00Vindication<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">Hello, peeps. I'm sorry it's been so long. It has been a whirlwind few weeks with tech for Chess and then opening Chess! But I finally have a mini-hiatus from the Chess world, and was able to do something I've been planning since November.</span><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br />
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<b><u>I took back control of my appearance.</u></b></div>
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<a href="https://pointmail.pointpark.edu/owa/redir.aspx?C=0d6cd3cdcc53422a9a64d9ad4e07fe15&URL=http%3a%2f%2f3.bp.blogspot.com%2f-SN_H0-Gm7Vw%2fUSvxfIjpulI%2fAAAAAAAAAgw%2fkuryrV35lks%2fs1600%2fshort2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrr23i9akL9F__jtAAbAk1WOXNflKZG-jd110iJE1GPn3poEoWUap2bhkyQzhcZKhaNN2gfADnbJkI0SShn-SkurH5RmKEzovdjlDvodWMzBWPyfa9dmu7QZNkAUnlrAqB_6LR5k2jd6o/s320/short2.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">Yes. The stringy mess that grew back on my head is gone, </span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">and let me tell you it feels amazing</b><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">. I always tell people not to cut their hair because they'll regret it...but in my case, I didn't know what else to do. I've been waiting since November 2nd, 2009 (the day after I finished chemo) for my thick brown hair to come back past my shoulders...and it just never did.</span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;"> I've spent the last four years of my life hating my hair for not growing out, and blaming my dissatisfaction with my appearance on cancer. </b><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">It wasn't until last year, when I went to speak to a psychologist who is known for working with cancer survivors that I really knew what I needed to do. </span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">I already blame enough on my cancer.</b><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;"> She pointed out that if I made a hair decision of my own accord, then I would have one less thing that I could blame on cancer. And it took me a year to get up the courage to do it. </span><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">I had been planning on doing it before I was cast in Chess, but then had to wait. Even when they told me I'd be wigged, I was hesitant to cut my hair until after the show opened, just in case they changed their minds last minute.</span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">But they didn't...and here I am.</b><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">And it feels really good. I watched the stringy, shitty hair tumble down to the floor today, and for a second, it reminded me of the day my dad shaved my head at the hospital. </span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">But it only for a second...because today was my decision. </b><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">I no longer can say that my hair is short and gross because of the chemo. </span><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">It's short and beautiful because I chose it for myself.</b><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">Choices are few and far between when you have cancer. And even afterward...you can choose not to check in with the oncologist and the kidney specialist, but you also risk a sneak attack relapse, or undetected kidney failure. You can choose not to take the antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds, but you risk dealing with the flashbacks and fear. </span><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">But today I made a choice for myself...and I feel vindicated.</b><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><b style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;"><br /></b><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">Love to all,</span><br style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">Jesse</span>Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-4132234826452129092013-01-24T20:14:00.006-08:002013-01-24T20:24:11.449-08:00Never Met A Lance I Didn't LikeHeyyooooooooo. It's Thursday. <b>I suck at my deadline, and you learned that early on.</b><br />
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Speaking of "early on", I wanted to say <b>thank you all for reading this spewing of my words. </b>When I started this blog, it was really more of a way for me to cope with all of the memories and anger that I still have pent up about 2009. I try to keep a brave face, but those memories haunt me vividly still, and this blog has helped me sort out some of those things and kind of find out how I feel about life now. <b> But the fact that people actually read it, and seem to enjoy it is something I really appreciate. </b> I've reached a milestone in the amount of hits this blog has reached, but I'm not going to say what it is because it might not actually seem like a lot to everyone else...and I care so much about what everyone thinks. For real though. But this blog has garnered a lot more attention than I ever would have thought, and I'm grateful that people care about what I have to say. <b> Or at least care enough to read what I have to say. </b><br />
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So let's talk about stuff, I guess. Let's talk about Lance Armstrong. And while we are talking about Lance Armstrong, let's talk about Lance Bass. We should talk about both of them. <b>Two Lances, three testicles.</b> Yeah, I said it.<br />
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But back to what I was saying. About Lance Armstrong and more importantly, Lance Bass. Lance^2 (I tried to figure out how to make a little squared symbol, but then I remembered that ^2 means squared on a graphing calculator). <b>I LOVE BOTH OF THESE LANCES.</b><br />
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And I will tell you why:<br />
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Lance Bass, the animated Peter Pan, and Peter from the Brady Bunch were my first crushes (well, after the kid who sat behind me in 1st grade who made me a personalized hand-traced turkey at Thanksgiving). Lance Bass was the mysterious one in NSYNC. <b>They never really let him sing a lot, but man was he pretty. </b> It's kind of like the NSYNC peeps were like "LANCE! You will never sing lead on any songs, but maybe after Justin decides to have a solo career, you can be an astronaut and go to space!" (he NEVER WENT TO SPACE WHAT WAS UP WITH THAT?) I love Lance Bass because he had yellow frosted tip hair. It wasn't blonde. It was yellow. And yellow, my friend, is my favorite color. <b>If I could grow up and have Lance Bass, Peter Pan, and Peter Brady be my sister-husbands I would. </b> But alas, Peter Pan is a cartoon (<b>AND NEVER RESPONDED TO MY FAN LETTERS</b>), Peter Brady married the girl who won the first America's Next Top Model that no one remembers, and<b> Lance, dearest, darlingest Lance...is gay.</b><br />
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<u><i><b>Such is the way of life.</b></i></u><br />
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Lance Armstrong, who recently confessed to Oprah that he used performance enhancing drugs to help him win the Tour du France, provided my people (<b>the people of the cancer tribe</b>), with a reputable, helpful, and comforting resource to use as we try to navigate our way through post-cancer life. "Livestrong" is more than just the tacky little bracelet you wear on your wrist to show other people that you hate cancer. <b>It is an organization that helps people like me, who are stuck in this f**king crazy mess of cancer madness, find solace in the fact that there are other people like us somewhere on this planet that know how to saline and Heparin lock an IV, and are scared every day of their life that one little mutated cell is going ruin everything.</b><br />
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Yes. It sounds dramatic. But it is. No one. NO one. <b>NO ONE.</b> Could ever understand the inner-workings of a cancer survivor or cancer patient's mind. <b> There is no such thing as peace of mind.</b> There's only this satisfactory state of mind, where maybe you don't think about your relapse possibilities for a day or two. Or maybe you don't think about the fact that your hair isn't growing back. Or that your sense of smell is as keen as it was the last time they loaded you with that bag of Ifosfamide, <b>so everyone around you smells like shit. </b><br />
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The majority of you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. But if you're a cancer victim, you sure as hell do. And hopefully, you hate this attempt to completely destroy Lance Armstrong's character just as much as I do. He made a mistake. <b> He's a-f**king-llowed. </b> Maybe this mistake was a pretty god damn big one, <b>but to discredit him for everything he's done for cancer patients and survivors on this planet is just plain ignorant. </b><br />
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It's been hard for me to bite my tongue when I hear people make flippant remarks or online comments about how Lance is a despicable person, or that he has ruined everything he stood for--or (my personal favorite), when people say that he has tainted the name of Livestrong. <b>Because I promise you, he has not. </b><br />
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I know it sounds cliche, and lax, and small-minded compared to the situation at hand, but everyone makes mistakes, and NO ONE is perfect. No one is. Not even me. <b> I pick my nose far too much.</b><br />
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There's this stigma in today's world that cancer survivors are these inspirational people who have fresh, positive perspectives on life. Let me tell you, <b>the pressure to feel that way is hard to deal with. Especially when I consider the fact that if cancer has taught me anything about life, it's that life is a piece of shit, and will continually supply with copious amounts of shit. </b>The fact that people expect me to radiate inspiration and wisdom is taxing. Maybe it was that sort of pressure that influenced Lance's poor choices. I dunno. I'm not gonna make excuses for him. <b> But while you can take away his medals or pom poms or whatever the hell you get for winning a glorified bike riding contest, you cannot take away his survivorship, and fact that he's a fighter.</b><br />
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Lastly, I will say this:<b> condemn the action, not the person. </b> For me, Lance Armstrong will always be a hero. Always. <b>And so will Lance Bass. And so will Peter Pan. And so will Peter Brady.</b><br />
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Keep reading my shit, and stop talking shit on Lance.<br />
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JesseJessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-15903881371175768562013-01-16T20:22:00.001-08:002013-01-16T20:24:56.626-08:00Guest Writer: Mike Mort!<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1358395945297_4626" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">
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"Who can say if I've been changed for the better?</div>
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But because I knew you</div>
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I have been changed for good..."</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; text-align: start;">-"For Good"(2003) from Wicked.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">My name is Mike Mort and I met Jesse a few years back at a Make-A-Wish Foundation event. After a wonderful video presentation about her wish (which was super cool), she sang For Good from the show Wicked, her singing absolutely blew me away and I thought to myself, "I have to meet this girl!". From that point on we were instantly friends, I guess having to deal with some heavy shit in our lives gave us some common ground and an unspoken understanding of what matters in life. </span><br />
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I am 21 and I am living Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. Because of this I use a wheelchair and am on a ventilator. Though my health may not be so great and my future is quite uncertain, I'm pretty damn happy considering, and I have striven to not let my circumstances define my personality. In my life I take pride in the fact that I volunteer for Make-A-Wish Central New York as their Social Media Manager, I also am a blogger thanks to Jesse, who motivated me to start writing a blog of my own after reading hers. I'm a huge film enthusiast and love music, also a good conversation can occupy me for hours (as Jesse can attest).<br />
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I am sometimes told by others how inspiring I am. This I personally disagree with. I feel that I aim to just live my life and that giving up is just not an option. In my opinion, overcoming adversity is not a matter of pure strength and perseverance but instead more of being able to adapt to what life throws at you.</div>
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Over the years I've picked a few little bits of wisdom here and there here's some I would like to share:<br />
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People are the fruit of life, some are sweat and some are bitter but they all sustain our souls like a full stomach.</div>
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Life is not easy for anyone, everyone has their cross to bear but how they see fit to deal with it is what matters.</div>
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Life is short and time is long, everything can change in an instant and an instant can change you, for a lifetime can lived in that moment.</div>
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Regardless of the philosophical thoughts that I sometimes spout, I am just a regular guy, more often than would probably like, I worry about stupid shit and I'm definitely not shy to the concept of being an asshole to people sometimes. Though my view of humanity is pretty high, the ignorant things people say to me in public never ceases to amaze me, if I have to hear one more quip about driving the speed limit I'm going to throw up! </div>
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Thanks for reading, you can follow my blog at:</div>
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<a href="http://manmythmike.blogspot.com/">manmythmike.blogspot.com</a></div>
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Thank you for letting me hijack your blog this week, Jesse! Much love! </div>
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Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8710738087899205560.post-29844973266483654032013-01-12T22:00:00.001-08:002013-01-12T22:44:10.887-08:00Don't Drive Like An Ass.Hello all. I know I said I would faithfully be posting on Wednesdays now, but we had no WiFi in my Pittsburgh house, and to be perfectly honest, <b>I am way too lazy to carry this laptop somewhere where there's free WiFi seeing as I don't have a weightless little Mac. </b> I could have posted on my iPhone, but seeing as it takes me about 15 minutes to compose a brief text message, it probably would have taken until now anyway. So I apologize, but please show some mercy.<br />
I had this whole thing planned where I was gonna write about how I'm gonna be a wonderful, new little person with the new year, but then I thought...no I'm not. <b>And regardless, that would be boring</b>. So it was back to the drawing board...until I left for Pittsburgh. <br />
Now...bear with me because the drive to Pittsburgh from Syracuse is seriously as boring as it sounds. Probably even more. It is long, dull, and <b>you can only listen to "I Knew You Were Trouble" so many times before you actually consider pulling over to a rest stop parking lot and waiting to be abducted. </b><br />
But for real...I can't tell you how many times I felt like rolling down the window and screaming "NO MATTER HOW CLOSE YOU DRIVE BEHIND ME, I AM NOT GOING TO DRIVE ANY FASTER THAN THIS." I drive an old Buick, the door doesn't close all the way, so the faster you go, the more wind you have blowing in your ear,<b> and I've already had a foot in the grave once in my life. </b>Not to mention I'm a law abiding citizen, god dammit!<br />
So that pissed me off. And then of course, someone merging onto the thruway didn't yield because he was sending a text message. Now seriously. I don't mean to get all old woman preachy and PSA-like,<b> but driving a car is like driving a huge, giant, death machine. </b> And now that I have an iPhone like the rest of the freaking world, I know of its seductive charms. But seriously. <b>Put it the f*** down when you're driving. It's not worth it. It's really not. And if you're expecting an important message, PULL THE HELL OVER.</b><br />
Before I was diagnosed with cancer, I was learning to drive, and getting ready to schedule a road test and all that. But then when the shit hit the fan, I obviously stopped. <b> No one likes a vomiting bitch in a Christine Daae wig driving a car on the highway. </b> So when I finished chemo, I was an 18 year-old, stuck at home while her friends were in college and her family went back to school and work--and I was immobile. I was stuck at the house. My mom kept urging me and pushing me to get my license but after everything I'd gone through--<b>I felt like learning to drive was just willingly putting myself back in harm's way. </b> I didn't like the idea of having my own life and the lives of others at stake based upon my own judgement and driving and the driving of others. It seemed terrifying. It was like when my parents urged me to ask for a Disney cruise for my Make-A-Wish. I was like...exactly what I need: <b>with the luck I've had, I'll beat cancer only to hit an ice berg or something, and die a watery death at the bottom of the Atlantic.</b> Sounds great. But seriously--that's how scary driving felt to me. <br />
But I needed to get out of the freaking house...so I did it. Reluctantly. It's amazing to me how eager and excited sixteen year-olds get about getting their license. They had to take me kicking and screaming to that road test. <b> I'm still an apprehensive driver.</b><br />
Fast forward to today, and not only have I had my bout with the C-word, but I've also had two tires pop while driving on a major highway, that sent me swerving into a ditch. Needless to say, I no longer drive faster than 65 miles an hour. <b> I'm one of those people that you pass on the highway. </b>I'm one of those people who won't answer or even look at messages while I'm driving. I'm one of those drivers who annoys the shit out of you. I also<b> A) Don't get pulled over</b>, and <b>B) am somewhat safer in my car than a speed demon texting at the wheel.</b><br />
In conclusion--remember that when you get into the driver's seat,<b> you are taking on a HUGE responsibility to yourself and to others.</b> As stupid and irritating as I am sounding to myself right now, please don't text and drive, please don't tailgate, and please don't drive ridiculously faster than the speed limit. <b>(And if you have ever even THOUGHT of drinking and driving, I don't even want you reading my effing blog).</b><br />
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Don't be selfish. Drive safely.<br />
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<3Jesse<br />
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PS>>>Wednesday there'll be a guest post by my friend Mike Mort, and you can find my writing this Monday on his blog <a href="http://www.manmythmike.blogspot.com/">http://www.manmythmike.blogspot.com/</a><br />
Just a little experiment we're doing to vary our readers!Jessehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741939050551902982noreply@blogger.com0