As my Daughter was telling me about another person with cancer that she knew, my mind started to think about my own mortality and battle. And how I wanted to help.
I've always been one to share. My Mom used to tell me even when I was a "big boy" as I am now, how I would always make sure whatever I had, I share it with my Sister. Or a neighbor. Or somone who didn't have as much as we did. (And we didn't have a lot). As a so-called adult, I've continued to share my stories and events of my life. Some would say too much and too often :)
Then I thought about this little blog I started 5 years ago. It was actually 6 years ago this month when I started to realize something was not right with me––I was always tired, always cranky and felt like I was in the worse physical shape of my life. I started banging on the keyboards for myself, to get my exact thoughts on everything I was going through mentally & physically in a place so I could review. Or someone else should I not make it. It was important to me and hopefully to my family and close friends that they had a little understanding of what people with cancer experience––without ever having to go through the disease themselves. What I found was that I actually learned more about myself than anything else. I wouldn't say everything was a great find––but it was and is honest, pure and true.
I learned that I was much stronger mentally than I originally thought. That I had an extremely high tolerance for pain––which is good and bad. I learned that my family was more afraid of me dying than I was. That I had fallen into a bad attitude that pervaded my entire life––and was mainly driven by the fact I was miserable at my job. I learned that I needed help. And accepting help was not a sign of weakness but a sign of loving and caring. I learned who my real friends were. And disappointed in those who used my illness against me. But the most important lesson I learned out of all the shit I went through, takes the smallest amount of effort.