There are mornings when I forget. I wake up without my constant struggles–like to walk and to balance–on my mind. But then I move to sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and the clumsy response of my body is a crushing blow.
All the frustration comes rushing back as I stumble out of the bedroom.
What am I now? Sometimes I can only think of what I am not: I am not the girl who used to get up early on the weekends, walk three miles to Starbucks, then relax with a new novel and my coffee. And I am not the girl who used to run 10 miles a week and loved it. And I am definitely not the girl people would look at and say, “You’re a lot stronger than you look,” when I’d carry a box or move a recliner.
That’s not me any more. Now I am a person who left behind all grace and dignity as I clawed my way out of the black hole that this brain tumor shoved me into. I know I am lucky to be alive; I have gained back many more abilities than the doctors ever thought I would. But sometimes, I get tired of being thankful.
Sometimes, I get tired of everything being an effort. I think of having to make that effort every single day for the rest of my life and I am overwhelmed with exhaustion by the thought. And then I think about how my type of tumor could come back at any time without warning, and the next time it could kill me.
That’s when I realize that being exhausted by life is a privilege.