Today is World Lung Cancer Day.
I don’t do days. Weeks, yes. Better yet, fifteen fucking fabulous years and counting.
Life wants to live, and I’ve had a good long time to get in touch with my survival instinct.
The last six months have tried me. A global pandemic and some gnarly side effects. Too much time alone with not a hell of a lot going on in the excitement department.
That’s alright. It’s been a fresh challenge. I’ve whipped those side effects into almost total submission. And, more importantly, I am learning once again to take joy in the sublime.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t actually get easier—surviving. Which means we have to get stronger.
My goal is to continually lead a more purposeful life. I can be a bit of a wastrel and frankly, this brave new world came with no guidebook. I have maxed out on diversions. The good thing about a short attention span is that even the bad habits get old fast and I’m ready to get serious again.
But not too serious. I’ve got a blonde buzz cut, a space between my front teeth, a hell of an attitude and lung cancer. My disease is not, and never will be, me.
Live, Love, Learn, Linnea