There are a lot of people I figured I’d date in my lifetime including but not limited to JTT, Prince William, pretend Dave Coulier, real Tony Bennett, very real Anthony Bourdain, and Joseph Gordin Levitt who has really been wooed by the letters I’ve sent him about my being an Asian ninja/sometimes super model. But someone I never thought I’d be dating is an oncologist. Our first date is next Friday at three and even though I’m super excited about the prospect of becoming the new owner of a lake house in Tahoe and/or a spaceship, I’m not so excited about the real truth of the matter: I’m sick.
First, let’s get a few things straight:
- I have not officially been diagnosed with anything but considering I spend too much time on the interwebz (hey I get paid to be here…I mean not doing exactly this per say but it would be rude of me to be in the neighborhood and not stop by. TV raised me better than that) and am a religious patient of Dr. Google, I’ve since learned having a swollen lymph node in your neck that’s been there for roughly three months and falling ill with an amazingly sexy smoker-esque cough doesn’t quite place me in the “let’s all high five each other in the faces and then get wasted at Epcot because life is pretty freaking sweet right now!” category. But Jesus, how I wish it did.
- Fine, I’ll say it. I’ll say the fracking “L” word. Lymphoma. If you were wondering the name of the big scary monster that not so politely could be currently invading my body, its name is Lymphoma and it’s apparently a bit of a bitch. Not so much as say a really hardcore bitch like other cancers, but a bitch who wears a mini-skirt every time she sees you because she knows you’re self-conscious about your knees.
- Did I mention I have anxiety? Yeah, so this could be a no big deal thing and then we’ll all just file this under “Shit Ericka Says that People Like to Read Because Normal People Would Never Say it Out Loud Let Alone Publish it Online,” but the truth is, I feel like shit and I’ve experienced a few “symptoms” that have made me wonder what in the hell is up with my body.
The whole thing is horribly frustrating because I’ve always been everyone’s shining example of health. No, seriously. That’s how I sign my Christmas cards: “Your Shining Example of Health, Ericka Clay.” Now how am I supposed to sign them?? “That Girl Who Still Sometimes Puts Her Shoes on the Wrong Feet But Really It’s All Her Mother’s Fault Because She Doesn’t Live with Her to Put Them on Correctly, Ericka Clay”?? It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
I’ve taken a mighty long break from the blog and even though it was to spend the holidays without a keyboard strapped to my hands, it was also so I wouldn’t have to write any of this shit down. But if I don’t, it will grow inside me and I may not be a highly paid doctor who gives away lake houses and space ships to people they’re pretend dating, but I do know writing gives my mind, my heart a break, and I sure as hell could use one right about now.
So hopefully around this time next week I’ll have a better grip on my body (haha, gross) and regardless of the diagnosis, I’ll hopefully start to feel a little better because I’ll finally have some answers. The one good thing that has come out of all this? Knowing that I’m lucky to be who I am and to have some pretty spectacular people in my life. And the incessant need to live.
Honestly? Some days I used to just float by. Not anymore.