I have cancer symptoms.
I suspect Hodgkin’s lymphoma is insidiously destroying my lymph nodes. If not that, it could be oral cancer. My left tonsil is twice the size of her sister. Have been unwell lately, tired, so tired on some mornings that I did not feel like getting out of bed.
Of course, self-diagnosis is a mischievous hobby, especially when performed by a short and frail boy-writer with a hat that happens to have a schizotypal personality. But I have certainly not felt well lately, and the tests I’ve done so far alarmingly confirm my suspicions – I have only 13.9% lymphocytes in my bloodstream, where the norm is 20–40%.
Considering that I live in Romania, it’s not likely that I’ll get a clear diagnosis until I begin to feel really sick. I don’t think I want to know, to tell you the truth.
Am curious to see what will happen to my body in the weeks to come. Has it already started to self-destruct itself? My symptoms could turn out to be the consequence of my still and solitary life, and of my arbitrary eating habits – I have eaten pasta 5 days a week for the past three years. Still, that doesn’t explain the tonsil or the swollen feet. A vitamin or iron deficiency maybe, but it could be something worse.
That I may die at 22 is tragic, but given my solitary existence, lack of friends, unromantic life, and estranged family, it won’t too dramatic. Would have been worse if I were an average 22-year-old with a college degree & serious relationship & close family & thirst for life.
Some dying people have a bucket list. They go travelling to fancy places or eat choice foods or enjoy immoderate sex. The only thing I want to do is finish Oliver’s biography before my untimely end (if it will come).
A person’s life is of no great consequence, much less that of a boy moth.
On a universal scale, humans are a little less than ants.
Considering how much destruction my existence has brought so far, how many ants I’ve clumsily, unwillingly trampled to death, how many cows indirectly tormented to procure their milk, how many unborn chickens killed by eating unhatched eggs, how many ripe fruits and vegetables consumed to curb my appetite, maybe I deserve to die, maybe every one of us deserves to die, and maybe a terminal disease is not a personal curse but a spiritual blessing, a liberation from the pettiness of our condition.
Still, I’d rather not die in my twenties.
We’ll see, but I can’t promise anything.
Haven’t posted much lately and probably won’t be posting much in the weeks to come. All my energy will go into finishing Oliver’s biography.