The Lonely Death

Today, I joined my co-workers for happy hour. Attempting to blend in and be a “typical” 26-year-old, well, as typical as a wheelchair user can be. But as our conversation shifted from favorite shows to the latest Drake drama, we touched on one of my most challenging subjects: future goals. You see, once upon a time, I was a 10-year-old with a 30-year plan. I could easily outline which college I’d attend, when I’d get married, where I would live and had outrageous goals (breaking a world record, visiting every country and going to the Olympics). However, all of that changed when I received my various diagnoses. It wasn’t an abrupt halt to my planning or dreaming but rather a slow fading into the distance; the timeline shortened, and the dreams shrank. No longer could I envision exploring every corner of the globe; instead, I settled for a new country each year. My 30-year plan became a 1-year plan, and my 5-year plan turned into daily schedule based on my physical condition. Herein lies the loneliness. While my co-workers shared their aspirations, I had to quickly dredge up an old dream to present and concoct the 5-year plan that I would have had without my diagnoses. Despite being open about my prognosis and journey online, I’ve chosen to keep that information close to the vest at the office. I suppose it’s because I don’t want the sympathy that accompanies a terminal diagnosis. I don’t want to be labeled the “sick one” or held back from a promotion due to my condition. So, I remain silent. I pretend that inquiries about my future don’t sting or that I still long to pursue my 30-year plan. The office is my refuge of “normalcy” amidst my personal struggles. Yet, the silence surrounding my diagnosis breeds an inexplicable isolation. I guess that’s the paradox of striving for normalcy while battling a terminal illness.