It wasn't until I was sitting by the water today in the DUMBO part of Brooklyn, staring at the Brooklyn Bridge, that I realized that walking over it has been on my Bucket List for years. I forgot that I always wanted to do it! And there it was staring back at me. It feels kind of uncomfortable, when you're "sick", to take on physical things. And even though I feel very very well, these stupid tests keep telling me, "No, no, no, you're sick..." So then I start thinking, "Oh no, what if I can't make it across the bridge. What if something happens!" So then, thank God, there's this other part of me, that's like, "F#ck That!" So I went! Plus, I think it helped that my friend Anurag, whom I spent the day with, told me that it's only a mile long. Wow, sometimes things sure can get built up in your mind! You know? Like, for example, stressing out about getting a stem cell transplant.
But in terms of the transplant, what's to be scared about? The alternative is not a good option. At all. I realized today, laying on the grass, that I really need this transplant. I just don't think the Spontaneous Healing route is an option anymore. Yoga is great. Eating well is great. Thinking well is great. Breathing well is great. Healers are great. But my bone marrow is shot. Whatever switched off its intelligence, it really did a good job. My marrow just doesn't know how to behave anymore. It is confused, and just needs to be written out of the script. It's OK bone marrow, we're going to replace you. You don't need to play this role anymore. It's like Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits (although she was great in that). The movie just made you feel like you wanted to save her, or give her a break, or just tell her, "It's Ok. Go home. Heal yourself. You've done a wonderful job."
This is actually hard for me to accept. This whole time, in the back of my mind, I thought my body was going to figure this out. I thought that it was going to remember the correct way to make happy blood. I've truly have never given up on it. But I think it's time to say good-bye. Thanks for getting me to age 49, but I'm moving on and getting some new bone marrow because this just isn't working out. I guess we're breaking up. But thank you for all the good times.
I haven't written much about my young years, other than describing how my friends actually parented me in the true and loving sense. They helped stave-off the effects of being raised by people who didn't love themselves and did not love their children properly but instead belittled us to heighten their own sense of self-worth. I was twisted with tears daily, often reduced to a clump on my bedroom floor. I remember a distinct feeling that there was something wrong with me, on a cellular level. Something I couldn't take care of on my own.
It's funny because, despite this glitch in blood making, I've got a very strong constitution. I'm so grateful to have been able to tolerate so much chemotherapy and still do things like walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. And do yoga. And enjoy Manhattan like everybody else and enjoy my family and friends like everyone else. Even if I am the lady with the shortest hair in town.
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