“Because you hate the disease, you hate yourself for having the disease. You don't want to die: it's the opposite of suicidal; the source of the rage and shame is in the will to live itself. You want to annihilate your diseased self in some kind of life affirming self-immolation. You don't want to be the sick one. The diseased are repulsive; you sequester yourself as the sick were sequestered in a medieval city. But it's not suicidal. My college roommate was suicidal. He was profoundly sad; he had lost his mother at seven and never fully recovered from this. He was one of the most intelligent people I'd ever known but more than this he was curious...when I say ‘sad,’ such a banal word, I think it really is perhaps the best one, better than despairing or melancholic; he was always in good humour, always wry...I had to identify the body at the morgue.” —Joshua Cody (American lecturer, composer and Hodgkin's lymphoma survivor)
Today I saw Leo in the waiting room for the first time since my discharge. He asked me how I was and I burst into tears because he looked so good; so happy and free. I wanted to tell him how well I was doing (I knew he'd be proud), but couldn't. So I hugged him three times, asked about his dad and left the building, sobbing uncontrollably. I fell asleep on the bus home and woke up in the city. I had McDonalds for dinner and got changed into bathers when I arrived home so I could continue to weep unabated.
One of those days, you know?