Asking & Answering the hard questions

 There are some people in my life who aren't afraid to ask me the hard questions. I actually don't mind it. What are the hard questions, you may be asking...

Well, 'hard' is subjective of course but to them it's questions such as how I'm thinking about life now that I'm aware the clock started on my countdown to when someday I'm not here and the journey ends. Or what I'm feeling about a treatment that will only work for a limited time. 

Not as limited as a sale at Nordstrom's but limited, nonetheless. 

And I don't mind those questions at all because it tells me two things - they are willing to acknowledge I'm probably thinking about it (at least at some level) and they're opening up to the uncomfortable conversation about how life - yours and mine - doesn't last forever. 

Which begs the question: why is it so uncomfortable to talk about life ending when we all at the very least intellectually can acknowledge that is the way it works. 

I can't answer that question for you. 

I've had no less than three highly educated, exceptionally intelligent, incredibly experienced doctors (two of whom have so many degrees you wonder how they found the wall space to display the proof) look me directly in the eye and explain the realities about my disease and how long I can (statistically) expect to live. 

And I still can't answer the question of why we, as human beings, can't wrap our minds around the fact that it'll happen to all of us. And we all know for so many it'll happen sooner than later. We just do not expect it to be us.

And with that heavy psycho-babble out of the way, I think I should tell you a story. It's short, don't worry.

I spent almost two years completely aware that something was terribly wrong with me back when I was in my early 30s. I just didn't know what the problem was for a long time.

I had weird symptoms like a constant film on my teeth, unfortunate but familiar symptoms like foggy brain, and digestive issues that could compete with just about anyone. I'm trying to be real here but we're leaving that right there. 

It took a lot of wasted doctor appointments, failed attempts at elimination diets (that's not true - I didn't fail them all, I just didn't always learn something), and losing my dignity to figure out I had Celiac disease.

When I finally got the call on August 7, 2013 from a doctor who had begrudgingly tested me for it to tell me it was positive, I sat for at least three or four hours as the light in the living room faded away into evening, just stunned. But of all the things I probably thought about in the silence of that day, I only really remember thinking about the two foods I would miss the most.

Pizza & Birthday cake. I love cake.

Do you want to know what I thought of pretty soon after I learned I likely won't see 50 due to this cancer diagnosis?

I have always wanted to live in one of those 55 and older housing complexes. Well, at least since my divorce. I'm serious. In some ways I'm so much like a typical bachelor. I completely dislike cooking (mostly I'm impatient when I get hungry and I don't want to clean up the kitchen when I'm finished), it would mean making so many new friends (which let me tell you can be very hard to do at my age, especially when you're single and have no children), and they do the lawn work and maintenance for you (I'm lacking a green thumb).

So this is crushing.

Now. If you know me well, you know I expect you to both take me seriously and finish reading this post laughing (at me or with me, take your pick.) I'm trying to lighten the mood here friends. 

On the upside, perhaps I don't need to be quite as concerned with wrinkles and I can save the money going toward those products for a trip to the beach.

I love the beach.

If you're willing to ask hard questions, I'm willing to answer them. Or at least discuss ways to get them to lower that 55 year old age requirement.