Three weeks ago today, I had a chemotherapy infusion. That means that right now, right this moment, I should be getting hooked up to a bunch of bags filled with drugs whose names I can barely pronounce, preparing myself for another week spent in bed.
But I’m not doing that. Instead, I’m living my life, like any other 25-year-old. I’m building the new headboard I ordered for my bed, crying inside while I write my July rent check, going out for drinks at cool dive bars in the East Village with my friends, meeting with my boss to discuss all of my projects at work, trying falafel from that little place around the corner where the menu is all in Arabic, exploring my new neighborhood, and checking my head obsessively to see if any new hair is sprouting (not yet, but Hair Watch 2013 continues).
I try not to lose…
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