Some Days

There is definitely a system to the sadness: three good days, one bad. I've been trying to jog around Greenlake to make my moods better, and it always works. The hardest step is the first one, out the door. There's a pulse; the path vibrates with heartbeats. I visualize a hum hovering over the runners, the walkers, the strollers, the bikers, a collective sound of conversations and thoughts. It's unintelligible, but that's perfect. Leave everyone with their privacy. 

My next MRI is mocking me, poking me with its' bony, skeletal finger. The last MRI showed some growth. Not enough to do anything, but some growth is too much. Each day, although I know that I have a brain tumor, I wake up and live my life. I walk downstairs, put the tea kettle on the burner, and wait for the whistle. Sometimes I leave the house, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I take care of emails and important things, but other times I just don't have the energy. Even when I'm exhausted, I still like to think that I'm the same as any other person my age, but the truth is that I'm not. 

I am too tired to work. I'm too tired to take care of lots of things in my life. It is too much to deal with bills and email, and stuff. I'm sad that I can't do all of the everything I used to. I'm sad that I have a new version of normal. My head hurts. I'm scared. Some days I'm carefree, and others, like today, I'm just sad. 

It's hard to win this game.