So, here I am, dealing with throat cancer. Part of me feels sorry for myself. Woe is me. I have pain, discomfort, inconvenience and can’t be living the nomadic life I love.
The less self-absorbed part of me realizes my entire life has been rather carefree, drama-free, tragedy-free, and that this is my first serious problem. Sixty-seven years of smooth rolling versus one pothole. That’s a fair ratio. Ridiculously fair.
Far too many people are on a life road that’s more craters than pavement. Just sketchy strips of asphalt connecting sinkholes and toxic waste pits. And too many of them have to navigate it alone—while being criticized for their lack of success.
During my time in the hospital and during yesterday’s appointments I saw people in much worse shape than me. It put my situation in perspective. I’m mostly fine. My life is mostly fine. I don’t feel great but I can function. And I have help. And people who care. Which, ironically, is more good luck for lucky me.
Maybe some of my luck was transferrable. If you’re out there wishing you could help me, help someone else instead. You probably won’t need to look far.