The Dirty Pink UnderBelly

"You're depressed," said flippantly and matter-of-factly, in hasty response to my admission that nothing interests me...

"You're depressed."

Well, I'm not crying all the time anymore...

"You're depressed."

I take an SNRI...

"You're depressed."

Smugly said, with an air of one who knows all, but is above all.

Rudely thrown out there in front of my peers, as if the declaration would suddenly give me drive and make my hobbies and past interests seem important again.

Arrogantly announced as if it were obvious to all but me.

I wish my answer could have been less defensive. 

I wish I didn't feel the need to defend my state of mind to someone who isn't in metastatic limbo land.

I function. Most days I get dressed. Most days I don't cry. I keep my doctor appointments and I take my medication and treatments.

I have a disease that will kill me. Maybe in six months. Maybe in six years. (Unless, of course, I explode first from the weight gain caused by the meds keeping the disease reined in.) 

Nothing seems important...in comparison to the fact that - regardless of my attitude, my frame of mind, or whether or not I eat enough fresh fruits and vegetables - this disease will get progressively worse, progressively more painful, and that the treatments will therefore get progressively worse, progressively more painful. 

Making jewelry, crochet and crossword puzzles seem insignificant next to having a child to finish raising, and a life to justify,  all in the probably-not-too-distant future.

Was I where I wanted to be at 30? No, so I reassessed and made changes. Was I where I wanted to be at 40? No, so I reassessed and made changes.

Am I where I want to be at 47? Hell no. I don't want to have metastatic cancer. So what am I going to do about it? 

Reassess? I'll still have this cancer.

Make changes? I'll still have this cancer.

No amount of passion to a hobby, interest in a cause, or desire to reinvent myself will change the fact that I have this cancer, and can't do a thing about it. 

Depressed? Yeah, probably so, (bitch), but I'm not going to trade it for a happy face-full of denial, so you can keep your met-with-me-a-few-times-in-group-setting brilliant diagnoses to yourself, unless you can find a more productive way of bringing it into the conversation. You're the one with letters after your name. You should know how.

I get dressed most days, and don't cry every night. 

All things considered, I think I'm doing pretty damn well.