Sometimes It Is Life or Death

So about two weeks ago now, my doctor alerted me to that fact that I had very unusual results when she got back my blood, and ordered another test.
She rushed it. Now I know, from a plethora of health problems I’ve had in the past, that rushing anything in the bureaucratic health system is never good. I asked why.
Turns out, and was confirmed from the second blood test that I have a MRSA blood infection, and it further turns out that this antibiotic resistant infection has made its way into my bones. Explains the joint may, the overall weakness, and even the cold that wasn’t getting better.
My doctor recommended I prepare my last wishes and that I had roughly 20% chance of living a year, however, that number could be significantly lower depending on the specific strain of MRSA.
Per my own research, I’ve since learned that a MRSA blood infection is no fucking joke. Rather, it’s pretty damn serious. Many articles have said that the fatality rate is very high, suggesting 30% of patients die within the first 30 days.
Fuck, I said to myself. That’s not good. I didn’t tell anyone, not a soul for a few days, then a close friend, then another, then my parents.
I’m sick. I could die. These are realities.
As I write this, I don’t know which strain I have of MRSA, nor do I know how long I may or may not live.
When I discovered this, I expected I’d be angry. But I wasn’t.
I expected to be sad. But I wasn’t.
In fact, ever since I found out I may in fact be dead in a just a few short weeks, I’ve been nothing but happy.
Happy because even if I do in fact die, and mind you I very happy and thankful to be alive presently, I can honestly say I’ve done quite a bit in the short 23 years I’ve lived.
In just 23 years I have written such compelling columns about homosexual-specific topics I beat someone from Berkley.
In just 23 years I have changed a policy at ASU to force RA’s (really they are called “CA’s” now) to go through training specifically related to GLBT issues, and how to address them properly.
In just 23 years I have fought for things I truly believe in, including fighting against same-sex marriage bans and did it so forcefully that I lived, breathed, obsessed it.
In just 23 years I have traveled the world, been to the beaches of Maui to the Berlin Wall to the Eiffel Tower, to places on the other side of the Iron Wall, including Budapest and Krakow.
In just 23 years I have been a “super-hero” to 3 year-olds, a role model and mentor for 13 year-olds, and can truly say I am proud of the work I’ve done to inspire generations behind me to be follow their dreams and live well.
In just 23 years I have loved a person, truly and honestly love a person with every ounce of my being, to the point where I would have done anything to make them happy.
The point is, it doesn’t matter if I die today, tomorrow, a month, a year, twenty years or fifty years from now, I have a legacy. A legacy I am damn proud of, and nothing, not some super-bug of a disease infecting my blood and bones, not a person or a group of people, nor a vote, can take my legacy from me.
That makes me damn proud of the life I’ve lived. Because I’ve been terrified of not living right, I’ve lived my life to it’s fullest and so dying is the last thing I’ll be afraid of.

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