I went through a weird phase about two weeks ago of being resolutely convinced that I was going to die. And by thinking it, I wondered if I was somehow killing myself by making my body turn that thought into an action. And then that convinced me even further that I was going to die, ad infinatum until I was nothing more than a snivelling, despondent mess. I ate a lot of junk food that week. Thankfully, I managed to snap myself out of it somehow but it was a dark place to be. Now I'm back to believing the statistics, which are 50/50. Well, kind of but not really. Let me clarify. I found out something interesting the other day. There was a public meeting about melanoma held locally, and attended by two very eminent melanoma specialists, so I popped along after work. I didn't realise, but my survival is already written into the melanoma. Whether it spreads to my organs, whether it can be fought, whether it is aggressive - all of that is pre-determined by the melanoma's genetic fingerprint. So although 50% of people at my stage die, my outlook is pre-determined. I just don't know what it is yet.
The nightmares have started again too. Last week I had four nights in a row where I dreamt I died.
Tomorrow I find out whether the latest biopsy shows cancer. I've already resigned myself to the fact it will.
No comments:
Post a Comment