I run my hand down the soft, malleable flesh of my left thigh. Subtly trying to move some of the fluid build up past the tumours in my lymph system. Stroke after stroke, nothing really being achieved but it’s either that or grab my dick and pretend I’m 5. A subtlety. A hint of something. It barely registers as a sensation. I backtrack, probing in a circle motion, too well rehearsed. Back forth, around and around, my fingers searching for something I know is there. And of course there it is. Beautiful in its simplicity and distinction. At first it barely exists, a hint made by gently shifting flesh. But its there. As my fingers work it emerges from its hole. A perfect nodule. A lump, an unexplained hardening. Unexplained but of course I know exactly what it is. It is around the tenth new one I have found tonight. I have been finding them for six months now. The pattern is so well defined that it feels like an old friend. Edema, wait, tumours. It shouldn’t bother me. Already in my groin the tumours are threatening to take my leg so what does a few dozen little skamps in a new place matter. Really I don’t know. But I keep searching like a man possessed. Fingers kneeding from one lump to the next.
I do not mind dying, as I have said before. But to watch part of you so thoroughly destroyed, humiliated and belittled its heart breaking. I would rather have the leg amputated then watch it deteriorate as it is.
I have no ending for this post. I sit in bed, sedated by painkillers, tears running down my face. With every lump I feel death closer but I can not stop looking. Perhaps I should take more pills and sleep, perhaps I should only blog sober. No ending, but I am too tired to continue. So here I stop.