Three weeks, time flies when you’re having fun they say. And then that dreaded day arrives again. I am not scared anymore, haven’t felt like that for years. But at the same time I loathe the day of infusion.
I shouldn’t be ill, I should be running, swimming, cycling, singing, making love like mad, dancing, playing footie with my children. This man was not made for sitting still on a couch for days, weeks, months, years even. I wasn’t made for this imperfection that is slowly dragging me down into an inevitable grave. I want to jump, rejoice, sing a glorious song but instead I am weak.
I am not praying for healing anymore, I gave that up long ago and accepted that the good Lord allowed this to happen and gave me just enough strength to bear this at the same time. I intensely long for that day that I am free of this disease and I can join in the choir above.
I wished I had enough patience for that but instead I am crying. Not for self pity but for the mere hopelessness of my situation and the absense of power.
I am weak but in my head I must be strong, endure this and be patient. A better day will come sometime. Free.