As I’m sitting naked in my wheelchair, pushing on the lovely “appliance” as the manufacturers call it, which has to be held on your abdomen for a minute to adhere to your skin, I think to myself, is this a joke? Is this a hoax to remind me of every little thing I did wrong in my life?
I know I should be grateful my bladder cancer was diagnosed and that I have this bag, as I call it, to attach to the raspberry protruding from my skin. I am glad I live in a location that has doctors and hospitals to help, and have insurance to cover costs of this bag.
But as I sit, pushing on it to make sure it’s stuck well, I always contemplate, okay, I know I should be grateful I didn’t die from this second bout of cancer, but god I hate this.
So is it a punishment, not as bad as some, but no bowl of cherries either?
This is what happens when you live alone and have two minutes to just look at yourself and see what you really are. A bunch of flesh and bones, worn but still working, and not ready to be stored on a shelf in a jar.
Which, by the way, I won’t be. I’ll be in a cardboard box buried next to my husband who was also cremated, on a high hill in a grove of cedars in Colorado.
This is not a poor me, feel sorry or sad post. It is a grateful to be alive and ABLE to sit here applying this delightful, hardly attractive, but life saving device.