I wasn’t supposed to live this long. I shouldn’t have lived much past eighteen. I don’t know if I would have even made it that far; the doctors never said anything about that. And I was certain, even after I had been cleared, that something would come along and that would be the end. Eighteen was a surprise. So was twenty, and twenty-two. I never expected it.

I can see parts of my past so clearly at times. Other things are just a blur. I remember facial expressions and hand placements and words. I do not remember most doctors appointments. I remember the surgeon’s words however and I’ll never forget them: “Serious (or bad) diagnosis, good prognosis.”

I cannot see my future and it scares me. It worries me and it plagues me because I want to be more and do more, but I can’t see where I’m going, and that is so hard for me. I want to improve myself and others. I want parts of my past to be in my future, but I also want new things, as time will not allow us to bring everything forward. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I think everything will come out the way I want it to. One way or another, a version of what I imagined will come to light. So while I can’t see it, I think it is there. Pain and darkness always find us; loss and grief are inevitable. If I’ve learned anything in my life thus far, it is that the good things are there, if we only remember to look for them.

Good prognosis.