I Hate Being So Dependent

I’m an independent person. I left home at 16 because I wanted to be in charge of my own life. My parents were loving and protective, but they were also bossy, particularly my father. We could fight like cats and dogs.

They wanted me to go to college close to them, so I could live at home. I chose a place far enough away so I didn’t have to.

Not that the dorms were all that great. And I had to work to pay for my own room and board because I chose that option, as my parents couldn’t afford that as well as tuition.

I felt it was worth it.

I no longer had a curfew, I no longer had them telling me to not do extracurriculars because they took away from school work. I no longer had to deal with my narcissitic brother and the problems he caused.

My independence continued through young adulthood.

Then, at the age of 36, I got cancer. It was inflammatory breast cancer, which, at that time, was considered fairly deadly. I was given 6 months to live though now, thanks to advances in medical care, the prognosis is much better.

Obviously, I survived.

However, I got a ductal carcinoma 12 years later and had to have a mastectomy. I chose not to do chemo and radiation, against the advice the first doctor I talked to, who refused to treat me because I made that decision. So I found another surgeon.

I went on with my life until about 3 1/2 years ago I was diagnosed with metastatic cancer in my brain, liver, and lungs. Again, I was told I had 6 months to live.

During this whole time, I tried to keep as much of my independence as I could. I still drove, except for several months after my brain surgery. I still exercised at home, did chores, painted, visited with friends, went to the store and to church. In other words, I had a reasonable life.

Sure, I might need help.

I was using a cane. Sometimes I needed a rollater. Sometimes I needed to leave events early. Sometimes I needed a hand.

Yet, it was only recently that I felt my indepence vanish.

I can no longer fill the bird feeder in my backyard. The last time I tried, I fell down and had to crawl back to the back door and inside so my mother could hear me call for help.

I can no longer drive.

If I still lived in New York City I would be able to take public transportation, except given my weakness, I might not be able to do that. I would have to manage flights of stairs, being bumped by strangers, and the possibility of no seats if the train or bus was too crowded.

I now am dependent on friends and on Uber.

I hate it.

Even around the house, there are days I am too weak to navigate without my rollater, and those are the days Mom fetches me tea or water so I can minimize my steps.

However, I am not giving up. I am going to find ways to restore my mobility. I have to.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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