On 10 September 2008, one hundred women were diagnosed with an illness.
On 10 September 2010, according to statistics, only 45 of them will still be alive.
Today is 10 September 2009, and I am one of those hundred women.
Death comes a long time before our bodies pack it in. The switch begins at the moment of diagnosis, and is complete within a few days, or minutes.
Real death is caused not by illness, but by friends, relatives, colleagues, care givers, bureacrats, medical staff, and the people you meet on the street. They switch you off in their minds, "click", and you don't exist as you any more. There is no other way to exist. Having just been thrown a robbing diagnosis, it's not even slightly interesting to be existed as anyone else.
So everything stops, and they go on muttering at some imaginary person pasted onto your weakening body. Complete. Irreversible. Missing. Death.
The universe as I knew it has been gone for a year now. Nothing is as it was, and never will be. Some things are much better, but most things quietly ceased their existence while I slept that first night.
Why have I decided to use this blog? There's more freedom over here, where I can think out loud without making weeping do-gooders blush with embarrassment in my presence. Because on the Internet, nobody knows you're dead.
There are so many things I cannot say from my daytime body, things that must be said, recorded, the truth about what is happening to me while I move ever closer to the final statistic.
That's why I'm inviting you to share the next few months with me, while I chew through my remaining 8760 hours, by the dim glow of the first 8760 hours. It won't always be pretty because it has to be frank, but sometimes it will be entertaining. And it might help someone to help somebody else to actually live their given hours.
There are 8759 hours.
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