On Living

 I want to live.

It screams in my head all day and night.

I want to live.

Even knowing for 5 years now that I wasn't meant to make it past my 50's.

I want to live and prove the doctors wrong.

Now. Cancer. Rare triple negative variant.

Numbers like only 10% of breast cancer patients get it.

Survival rates are high if not in stage 4, though reoccurrence is just as high.

But I want to live.

This giver and helper, whom fights for others every day.

Locally, regionally, globally. With every breath I take.

It's a bad day if I've not helped at least one person.

Or made someone smile.

I want to live.

When every big positive moment is crushed by negatives just as big.

A perfect-for-me home in a cute little town. 

So excited to move and start anew after so much pain.

Triple-negative, stage three, cancer.

The new start starts with this stigma. Will they even care to know me for me?

But I want to live.

Getting to see friends and former co-workers at a luncheon. Leaving happy!

My truck and I were damaged on the way home from it.

These two latest examples in a line of so many it is overwhelming.

Any time something extraordinary, something positive happens.

Any time I tell people about these good things and allow the happiness to show

Every time it gets knocked away, stomped on, kicked apart, destroyed.

Yet I want to live.

Even if it is just for the little good things that happen versus the big.

Like making someone smile, or a moment of discovery in nature.

This giver and helper who races to help others

Who fights against a genetic nightmare so others can get better treatment.

This friend, niece, cousin, who drives my damaged body many hours north and south every year.

Who calls and messages long ahead of time to try to make plans because I love you all.

Who gets "call when you get here" when I'm not sure there will be time or energy.

Who knows I don't mean enough to any of you to do the same. 

No one ever visited me, and there was so much I wanted to show you!

No calls in between visits unless I made them to you.

Yet, I want to live.

The helper of helpless cases as my online friends call me.

But they know I'll jump in and be there at a moments notice.

Now begging, pleading, for help from those around me near and far.

First in the winter as my world of 15 years came apart.

When I had to rebuild, piece by small piece, into something better.

The silence, the lack of help, was intense then. 

The actions of someone I barely knew anymore put a roof over my head

So I can live.

Now, the silence, the lack of action, is intense once more.

I don't need  "You are so strong, brave, resilient."

I need rides to doctors or ways to pay for rides until the truck is fixed. 

There's not enough to cover sudden repairs and rentals on top of bills.

Not when one is in the government's tight fist due to disability.

And I want to live.

When treatment starts, it's going to be making sure I'm nourished.

Healthy delivered meals that are easy to heat and eat.

You ask how you can help. Or say you feel helpless and don't know what to do.

I put out what I need the most on social media, instant message. texts, calls.

Silence.

But I need to get to these things to live!

Don't you want me to? 

Or do you think my damaged existence and its bad luck has run its course?

I don't. I know there is more I was meant to do.

More I was meant to see. 

I want to live.