Suck It Up, Buttercup

A few days ago I performed likely the worst Youtube vlog video that has ever been created.  I don’t like it, and I want to take that particular video down…but I’m not gonna.  Why not?  Because I am as imperfect as imperfect could possibly be, and people need to see that part, too.  When I started throwing this cancer energy out into the world, it wasn’t only to promote how talented I am at hiding my feelings.  Rather, the intent was to show everything – and I mean everything – that happens to someone like me when they are diagnosed with a terminal illness and are preparing to die.  The search for perfection has to end.

Someone like me?  Yup.  A triple type A middle-aged control freak who cannot fathom the thought of non-existence.  A person so capable of convincing herself and others that all is right with the world and the “I can handle it, I got it covered” mentality.  Someone who has centered her life around ensuring others would only look at the great success created (whether or not it was actually success) and promoting an atmosphere of oooooohs and ahhhhhs and – ok, ok…had enough? Me too.  I will stop explaining who I think I am because right now it seems to be only a mirage of self-doubt if you get right down to it.

so far I have written two paragraphs that mean absolutely nothing.  Can you see that?  Apparently, my talent at bullshit hasn’t taken a hit yet.  hum-dee-dum, what do I write about?

I hate cancer.  That has been a theme for the past year and a half.  I don’t know how much more emphasis I can put on the word “hate” but imagine something you feel so strongly about that it causes actual negative physical emotion, and magnify it by a million.  You might come close to understanding my use of that word, but I doubt it.  Even I – the one who feels it – cannot explain it in an approriate manner.  Dammit.   Mayday, mayday…anyone there?  Goin’ down in flames over here…

Ok.  Reboot.  What the hell am I talking about?

I am talking about how badly I want my life back.  I want to wake up in the morning and think about something besides cancer.  Anything.  But I am having a difficult time with it – my thought process.  I wake up, I feel pain, I think about cancer, I realize that is my world now and spend the next fifteen minutes convincing my body to not pull the covers back over my head.  I tell myself there are a million reasons I need to exert my energy into the world, alive, and further convince my mind that I have to find one thing – just one – to be thankful for.

Some may say, “You are alive, be thankful.”


Really?  Really?!  I am about to start a process that I am fully aware is going to cause my body an ungodly amount of sickness and pain, make it difficult to pee, poop, walk across the room without throwing up, disallow me to spend good times with my family…and you want me to be thankful?  Some others may say “You have a beautiful young daughter who loves and needs you.  She deserves to have a mother, be thankful for her.”  Friggin’ seriously?  You actually think that beautiful, smart, love of my life girl wants a mom who consistently reminds her of illness, is the epitome of a spiritually broken woman and is angry at the entire world – you want me to be thankful this is happening to her?  Not on your life.

Truth is right now, I agree with you.  I agree the paragraph you just read is awful.  I agree that I need to adjust my attitude and be grateful to have the opportunity to experience life regardless of its side effects.  I am trying to decide if this is a mind-over-matter issue or is it just that I am an ugly person?  Or maybe…maybe I am a good person, and I know I am a good person, and shit like this should not happen to good people.  (Um, then Cin…who do you propose it should happen to? Moron.)  And it makes me angry that life is not fair.  That life – life – is going to destroy a tiny human who every day depends on its comforts.  I love her and the very thought makes me furious.

And then I think about me.  I think about how selfish it feels to want to give this to someone disease and all that comes with it to someone else.  I realize how prejudice it seems to visualize a more “deserving” human.  Oh come on – we all have prejudice.  We just do.  In my mind, a more deserving person, or rather population, are the child molesters of the world, or the drug user who doesn’t care about anything but his/her next fix, or murderers…I could go on.  But, how can I do that?  Each of those individuals, even as a population, were not born that way.  They had some shitty life circumstance that allowed the universe to hand them the life they have.  So why them?  Because it is what I think?  I must be pretty arrogant in that manner of thought, right?

So when I think about these things and try to find the tiny little box that my brain wants to put it in, I realize we – every single one of us – have no control over anything.  And no matter how hard I try to hold on, how much I push for things to go one way instead of the other, it doesn’t matter because control is the illusion I allow myself to see as real.  I think it is the only way my mind can comprehend what is happening in my life, the fact that I am going to die soon and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

*sigh, pause, slurp some coffee, look back at the computer screen through teary eyes*

I’ll say again, I am going to die soon and there is nothing I can do about it.  Being angry is at least something, right?  Even if it is the wrong thing?

I Finally Found The Guts…

Well, I did it.  I created a Youtube channel.  As much as I write much better than I speak (at least I think I do), I want to share what it is like to have a terminal diagnosis. The way life is turned upside down, how everything you think you know changes into something absolutely unrecognizable – it just had to be done.  I will still write because that is [obviously] my first love, however, I encourage you to take a gander for yourself.  See if it is different.  Tell me how it affected you differently than reading my words.  I really need to hear it right now.  I am at a weak moment and feel like such a useless tool that just one person can make all the difference to me right now.

In the meantime….I am in the mood to write a story of some type.  Somebody – anybody – give me a topic.  A slant.  Tell me what you want to read.  Okey dokey smokey?

Then, go here:          The Not So Secret World of Cin



Keep Me

I look in the mirror and all I see

Is the once beautiful young girl I used to be

My body was healthy, my mind was strong

And life was good when nothing was wrong

As I grew up it came to pass

The once young girl would surely not last

As my health starts to crumble, and life a continued rush

It seems way too early to return to dust

But this is my fate, my destiny

The woman in the mirror staring back at me

She is older and weak, and her skin is so light

Her body has finally decided to take flight

It grows old and weak, undeniably not strong

I just can’t accept it – all this is wrong

The sickness and pain that haunts me at night

Has now joined me in all of daylight

I can feel it coming, the slow start of death

I dont want to go, please, please keep me…

Please keep me, alive.

Is this it?  Did it work?

Hi!  If you happen to be looking for my sandwich story, try this..if it doesn’t work I will make it right and repost sometime Sunday (tomorrow) evening.🤣🤣🤣

Here’s the link to the file:!AnEVvnF6ObbdiV__0B9nf15kOEdC

Shared from Word for Android

And There It Is. The “Existential Slap”. I Don’t Want To Die.

After my test results yesterday, I am mentally and emotionally exhausted. After cooping myself up in this low-lit bedroom with no sunlight and stale air, I came across this article (link above), and finally found a name for the feeling – the heart wrenching feeling of what it is to have one last diagnosis presented to me. Just when I thought I had found my way around having cancer, the “existential slap” struck my heart again. This time with some kick, like I have been punched in the gut several times.

I was informed by my oncologist that there was a mass found in the duodenum of my intestine. A mass they cannot yet explain however, I noted a very clear expression on her face. It was like she was secretly saying to me, “Don’t get your Hope’s up Cin, this is likely not good news.”

How do I handle this? I am good at many things but I am worse at more. One of the many things I am positive I will not do well is die. I can’t! I am not ready! Not at all. My daughter needs me, she is barely four years old and every day looks at me with eyes that burn through my heart. Her innocence keeps me alive every day…and it also tears a tiny piece of my heart out, when I ponder too long on the truth that at one point in the near future, the light in her beautiful big blue eyes, will dim, and become sad. That thought alone is enough to bring me to my knees and send the sting of hot tears tears streaming down my cheeks. It is more than I can bear on this hot August morning.

So. For today, I choose to ignore it – the thought of dying. I am lying to myself that the welt of yet another “existential slap” has not taken me back a few steps. And the art of being convincing liar was something I never truly accomplished. I doubt I can believe myself even. So on this day, I choose to be utterly happy. I doubt my choice will be one that is carried out to the fullest extent of…however one measures happiness. But I can try. And I will.

Maybe tomorrow it – the realization of my “cease de resistance” – will be more palatable.



“The Universe Can be Kind of a Dick”…

…I have this vision of dying in a pair of the most awful and insulting socks one could possibly find…

I found this title on a pair of socks on Amazon, now I have to have those socks!  Someone send them to me, please?  Let’s see if I can figure out how to put the picture in this post somehow….hmm. Oh – and the link…somewhere down below.

universe dick socks And looky there.  I did it.  Damn, sometimes I surprise myself.

Anyway, anyone who knows me knows that I have a thing for crazy socks.  Socks that have perverse or obscene language are a particular plus…but they can be just cute animal lover type also.  Doesn’t really matter, just sick of wearing plain white or plain colored socks.  Aren’t you?  I have this vision of dying in a pair of the most awful and insulting socks one could possibly find; to make the nurses laugh and…well to make anyone who wants to cry, laugh.

Speaking of dying, I still am.

I haven’t written for quite some time because for whatever reason I fell into some deep-rooted depression that even I can’t explain.  Pretty sure I am still there, however, this was the first morning I woke up and took a shower – rather, forced myself to get out of bed and take a shower – and now…well now I want to do something.  So here I am.  I’ve never been depressed so it took me a few weeks of not getting out of bed and only showering every few days to figure out there was more than a little something wrong.  And now I am seeing a therapist…to talk about how in the holy hell I can live and die at the same time.  Not sure if I will ever have the answer to that question.

Why not, you ask?  But Cin, you are living and dying right now, you say?  But Cin, isn’t everyone living and dying at the same time, you ponder?  Um…that depends, is my concrete response.  It depends on your definition of both living and dying.  To me, living is not simply being awake and taking a breath every few seconds and listening to my heartbeat over and over and over.  Living a life is more than that, isn’t it?  I have lived. In fact, I have lived several lives. I should know.  Betchya want me to elaborate on that one, eh?  It screams drama, haha!!

Oh, the stories I could tell about living….some would put Mother Theresa to shame, some would (hopefully) make her proud.  But the real juicy ones – those are the ones I swore I would never tell.  The ones that, at many points in time, I promised my soul that a peep shall never be uttered.  But what fun is that hmm?  I’m taking a chance here ya’ know.  The crap that swarms my brain every so often may be absolutely nothing anyone wants to read or hear or see for that matter.  On the other hand…I do know from talking to just one of my besties that my drama is the diva drama of all time.  And I have been told on several occasions to write a book.  That regular peeps (unlike myself) wouldn’t be able to put it down and would be screaming for more.  So…something to think about at least, right?  Should I keep writing or should I just tank it and go back to bed?

Well, my bed isn’t an option today.  Today I go see a surgeon for yet another abdominal surgery.  This surgery to fix the anastomosis that was likely screwed up the very first time, which has contributed to two surgeries and three hospitalizations of total discomfort.  What a mess.  We will see what he has to say.  Surgeons love to whip out their knife so it is likely that he will be all gung-ho for carving me up, again.  At some point, all of this surgery has GOT to be killing brain cells in droves.  No wonder I am depressed.  Cancer isn’t enough…its everything that comes after the diagnosis that kills a person!

Back to whatever it was, I was saying before I got stuck on the surgeon.  Oh!  Stories.  Yup, I have many.  Pick a topic.  I bet with 98% certainty I have something in my closet to say about it – all truth mind you – one doesn’t get to be a totally cynical 47-year old cancer patient without true diva drama.  Seriously.  Pick a topic.  It will give me something to do the next time I take a shower instead of pulling the covers back over my head.  I’m waiting.

After an hour of clicking on buttons, I figured out how to give you the web address for the socks.  Yeah, that took brain power I hadn’t saved for yet and three minutes of my life I’ll never get back.  You’re welcome. Feel free to buy them and send them to me – LOL.  Or buy them and wear them yourself…but you have to wear them. Deal? Oh!  Here’s a thing;  if you find a topic for me to write – some sort of true diva drama story – and it gets published somewhere…I’ll buy you socks.  Hows that?!

Dick Universe Socks

Just in case you want to donate socks…



Rainbows and Unicorn (Poop)

“At times I have hated myself – my body and the ingenious way it has figured out how to die – then got over it.  But I’m not over it, and I don’t know how to get there.”

This will likely be a short post, and a tiny warning…it may sound more like a rant than anything else.  And you may be offended so let me just address that right now.  If you are offended at something I write (or something I do not write), get over it.  I am opinionated and passionate, and I am dying.  I have zero control over anything in my life and have realized that I really have never had control over anything, haha!  It was an illusion I created for myself.  And if I could do it over with my current knowledge – I would do everything differently.  Almost everything.

I have been reading about death and dying..bogs from other people that are going through something similar to me.  And so far what I have read has really just…well so far I am not impressed.  I am reading about how well they have accepted their fate and all of the love and fru-fru stuff.  I have read nothing about the pure anger and emotional pain.  It is not all unicorns and rainbows people!  In fact, I am angry and sad, and angry, and sad, then ok, then sad and so on and so forth.  In the past year not once have been “everything will be fine and things happen the way they happen and I just want to spend my time with my family”.  Not once.  Not yet.

Does this make me a terrible person?  I hope not.  But if it does then I guess that is my reality, in addition to dying.  I don’t WANT to die.  Who does??  I don’t WANT to sit here and worry about my three -year old daughter and how much this will hurt her, but I do.  I don’t WANT to figure out how to find comfort in providing comfort for my husband, and how this will destroy the dreams we had of growing old together.  I WANT to change it.  I WANT it to go away.  I WANT to have the power to do something about it and I WANT cancer to just go away for goodness sakes.  And I am not getting anything I want.  And I’m pissed.  And at times I have hated God, then got over it.  At times I have hated my doctors, then got over it.  At times I have hated myself – my body and the ingenious way it has figured out how to die – then got over it.  But I’m not over it, and I don’t know how to get there.

A counselor, maybe?  Doubtful.  At the risk of sounding arrogant, I have been in healthcare for 30 years (since I was 16-years old), I know what is happening and what is going to happen to my body.  And I know there is nothing I can do about it.  And I know that being angry is just a waste of my precious damn time.  And I know that regardless of what I feel this is going to happen no matter how bad I am against the whole idea of being a terminally ill patient.  Talking about these intimate things to a stranger with more letters behind their name than I have will doubtfully make a huge difference in how I view the facts.  BUT, one never knows.  Maybe I better start looking for one.

I am likely angry because I am scared.  Most emotions – or at least the negative ones – are sparked by fear.  I could go on and on about this and continue the rant…but I am certain it is all coming out wrong and that the impression I am giving is of a spoiled, self-centered, egotistical stingy brat who happens to have cancer.  That is not who I am.  But…how do I show you…how do I make some sort of damn difference in someone’s life – anyone’s life?  How do I hurry up and figure out what my legacy is so I can place it somewhere in the universe and leave my heart print?  Do I have one?

My heart is just plain broken.  I don’t know how to die.