When shit gets real

As I’ve entered my 30s, it seems, getting sick has become a much bigger deal. My friends and family are no longer talking pesky UTIs and surprisingly violent cases of the stomach flu; they’re talking multiple sclerosis, endometriosis, chronic depression and anxiety, dementia, debilitating chronic pain, cancer scares — actual fucking cancer.

I guess when it comes down to it, they’re talking death.

There’s an IG post that keeps going around with one of those quotes about the relativity of it all. I have fairly cheap and easy taste when it comes to inspirational quotes, so I bite every time. The gist of it: the fact that nobody gives a shit about you can be either terrifying, or terrifically exhilarating. It can either make you insignificant or invincible; minuscule or all-encompassing; pointless or free.

My encounters with death — or anything that hints at it — tend to resurface these thoughts for me. How have I led myself to believe that my missed deadlines, my five extra pounds, my unanswered texts or my empty fridge/equally empty bank account are so deeply representative of my value and place in the world? If shit hits the fan and an asshole of a tumor decides to settle on my brain, is there a single person around that bed that’s going to give any fucks about my weight or punctuality?

Already, I know that I will one day feel quite silly and foolhardy for putting so much energy into fulfilling expectations and seeking constant blanket validation. In fact, I’m beginning to feel it already. If I even dare to think about the time and energy I spent worrying about my weight in my teens and twenties, my heart sinks a little. And yet, confronted once again with the volatility and elegance of it all — have I learned anything?

That friend, the one with the asshole cancer, she’s already figured a lot of this out. Though I have nearly a decade on her, she solidly schools me when it comes to filtering out what doesn’t truly matter and investing energy in those you actually care about. She handles the world with the eloquence and grace of my grandmother; but with the pure energy, fierceness, appetite, and voracity of Queen Bey.

In an optimistically nihilist world in which we all choose to celebrate the fact that nobody truly cares and nothing really matters, she’s chosen to nurture and value those around her who do, and most impressively — she’s remembered to include herself in that group.

You can tell a lot from the people who surround your hospital bed when life gets chaotic and messy. And as the silence settles over a room, as your loved ones come to terms with what will, at the very least, be months of suffering, fear, and uncertainty for one of their favourite people in the world; the weight of that quiet sadness seems almost directly correlated to that of the love, respect and admiration people brought with them when they walked through the hospital door. This lady has a whole lot of love and admiration coming her way.

So as we wait for life to chaotically unfold and the epic battle to begin, I’m going to tell a few people I love them and drink a pint without counting the calories.

Because fuck it, folks. Spoiler alert. When shit gets real: nobody bloody cares.