My move to the West Coast has meant spending most of my time seeing doctors. A good bone marrow transplant demands preparation. But when there is some down time, it’s spent with my caregiver. She’s the only person I know out here. She’s also my mother. She has a thing for asking me questions about what’s going on. I think she thinks if she gets me talking about things it will help keep the road smooth, or smoother. She’s probably right, mothers usually are. Here’s the one she dropped on me the other day:

Do you think your life is anymore stressful now than it was last year?

This answer seems obvious enough. Last year at this time I was normal. The mention of my name didn’t bring anything different to mind than it would for an average, trying to figure it all out, twenty-something year old. We are a dime a dozen nowadays.

But the bad blood work and worse bone marrow happened. And my illness and I haven’t been separated since. There have been some days where it seems impossible or made up. Wait, I need a bone marrow transplant? Really? Me? Think about it too long and things start to happen—anger, resentment, loneliness, bitterness, self pity and worst yet self loathing.

When I was first told I was ill those bottom of the barrel days happened often. As time proceeded they occurred less and less to the point where I haven’t felt one in awhile.

But back to the initial question. Is it more stressful? Sitting here today I would say no. You say I’m crazy. I say my life has become simple. I have one goal now, getting better. I think back to pre-aplastic anemia days how stressed I was about too many different things that really all amounted to one thing—”how was I  perceived”.  The thought still crosses my mind, illness has not brought me into some Zen state where  others have no bearing on my thoughts and feelings. But it has given me the ability to check myself and ask how much does “this” really matter compared to what really matters. That saying some crusty old man who like to be called Papa Joe passed on  to my mom, and she passed on to me, “I don’t let anyone in my head who doesn’t pay rent,” is finally making some sort of sense to me.

I think back to to the more stressful moments of my life. High school was stressful, the first day of college, graduating with a $120,00 diploma and being unemployed, the first big job interview. They seem laughable now, but they weren’t, not then at least. During those times I experienced the same anger, resentment, loneliness, bitterness, self pity and self loathing I experienced after sickness—only I lacked the ability to put it all into context. Sure I could say “Matt, no one cares about the giant pimple on your forehead”, but sooner or later I would find myself trying to hide it, excusing myself to the bathroom to stare it down, worried what my company thought of such blatant imperfection.

In closing this I’ve announced to my caregiver the answer is “No.” No, I’m not more stressed now–probably closer to less in the overarching sense. Like I said, I still have my moments. Even now while I’m typing I can’t help but think what I’ll say reading this in ten years, maybe I’ll call myself an idiot, what the hell was I thinking. But screw me in ten years, last time I checked that guy doesn’t pay any rent.

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