New Huffington Post Piece

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kelly-bergin/escaping-chronic-illness_b_3677180.html

Rooted

Here’s the thing.

I love Los Angeles. I wish I still lived there. When I lived there, it was right for me and I felt great.

But that was before Sadie.

I’ve been traveling a lot this year, and when I’m gone for more than a week, I worry she’s forgotten me. I worry she might even miss me, even though she’s only 9 months old. I worry I will miss something.

Three days a week I have her while my sister and brother-in-law (to be) work. Three days a week where my life is so much brighter, where my life feels like it could be so much longer. 

I never want to miss one of those days, those weeks, those months with her.

I’m rooted now, in her. In her red, curly hair. In her Army crawl and loud giggles that attract the attention of everyone in Wegmans. She’s not mine–she’s got the greatest mother in the world–but she’s attached to me in a way I didn’t expect but so, so cherish.

So, no; I’ll probably never live in Los Angeles for more than a winter at a time. I’ll probably move back to Brooklyn when my health is right. I’ll never leave Sadie, not for long.

This is the only place for me

Get Me to Dry Land: FD2 in Montana

One year ago, I headed to the Outer Banks for my first program with First Descents, an organization that provides outdoor adventures for young adult cancer survivors. As many of you know, this program has enriched my life and pushed me to do things I'd never dream of doing before cancer. (See: that half marathon relay I ran.)

I remember coming home from my trip a year ago, invigorated and changed, telling everyone that surfing was the hardest sport I'd ever tried and that kayaking next year would definitely be easier. I couldn't imagine being more exhausted than I was last June.

(Ha.)

And that's truly what I believed until this past week, when I headed to Montana to kayak for my FD2 program.

I truly thought kayaking would involve just floating down some rapids. No standing up in the middle of ferocious waves.

But no. Whitewater kayaking is nothing like surfing. Yes, it's physically demanding and there's like, this water stuff, involved, but you're in a boat for 6 hours at a time. There aren't any breaks to hang out on the beach and eat grapes while ogling at surf instructors like I MAY have done in the Outer Banks.

If you're cold while you're kayaking, you're going to stay cold for six hours. If you're sneezing and coughing, you have to stay on the water, even though you are praying to God to make the week fly by. Which I did, more than once.

Kayayking can be pure misery if you're weak or tired or cranky. Three things I've been known to be.

And yet, I had one of the best weeks of my entire life.

And I was about to faint, shaking like a neurologist's dream patient, tired and exhausted when I realized it.

It was our first day on the water, and we had just graduated from the lake to the creek. Toward the end of the day, my kayak had flipped, completely surprising and scaring me.

When the boats came to save me, my already broken and bent arm was caught between a tree and a kayak and I was halfway submerged and in swirly water. I swam behind the boat to a little island where my camp directors and guides helped check me out and empty my boat. I was bruised and scratched and tired...

But I felt completely fucking alive.

And for me, this feeling of vitality saw me through a week where I felt like shit and wanted to sleep all day. I picked up a cold that steadily worsened throughout the week, and I couldn't kayak much because of my broken elbow and busted collarbone. (Turns out those two particular bones are useful when it comes to paddling.)

There were certain points of the week where I watched new friends challenge themselves and I felt helpless and stupid, a log on the sweeper raft that carried our gear and supplies. Every time my thoughts strayed this way, I tried to infuse myself with the inspiration I felt watching my friends surpass their own expectations.

At night, we ate great food and talked about cancer, how it had changed and hurt us, opened and broke us. How to parent, or decide to parent, or take on relationships with this heavy weight sometimes feeling like it was squeezing us tighter and tighter each passing day. We talked about how to kayak with cancer and how not to kayak with cancer: we talked about how to let yourself off the hook.

For a trip that could seem to others as depressing or morbid, I felt more alive than I have in months, even while admitting I was down for the count, not as strong as I wanted to be.

I have always struggled with pretending it's all okay in order to do the things that I've wanted to do: I went to a music festival in Tennessee two weeks after my appendix burst; I put off the doctor for a week when I broke my arm last month; I ignored the golf ball in my neck that turned out to be cancer. I regularly switch between telling the truth about how I feel and turning and telling everyone not to worry. I do it for others, but I mostly do it for myself.

You're fine, I'll say. This hurts, I'll say. I want to give up, I'll say. I want to keep living, I'll say. All within the course of a minute in my head.

This week reminded me that that is what life with illness is about. Leaning into the hard times (or the current) just so you can shoot down the rapid ahead. And that excuberance you feel when you look back and see what you've done?

That is joy. That is life. That is out living it.

Thank you to First Descents for another amazing week. Patch, Pedro, Braveheart: your friendship means the world to me. Thanks to our camp moms, who I want to adopt me so I can have a trio of moms badgering me about water. And thanks to Bomb and the Dude and our AMAZING guides for taking such good care of me.

I'm planning to run/walk a 5K in order to raise money for this organization that has taught me so much. You can donate here: http://teamfd.firstdescents.org/2013/fd/kellybergindotcom/. Thank you kindly!

My Trip to Friday Harbor

On the morning of May 23, I woke up at 3 am and shoved the rest of my stuff into a bag. I got my brother and we headed for the airport. I was on my way to Friday Harbor, an island off the coast of Washington State.

When I arrived in Seattle after two flights and little sleep, I hurried to baggage claim to reunite with Matt and Maddy. And then Jenn, a stranger to me but a friend to Matt, picked us up in her van and we drove into the city.

I saw the Space Needle and it was there I realized the sores in my mouth were worsening at a rapid rate. The dry air on the plane hadn't helped. I pushed food around my plate and tried to engage, but talking hurt and my mood was damaged by the pain.

For the first three nights of the trip, I laid in my bed in Jenn's sailboat in her yard and cried silently from the pain and from the rawness of emotion that pain exposes.

I was surrounded by what would become new friends and wonderful children. And yet, I couldn't connect. I couldn't be me, because I couldn't talk.

I am loud, talkative person. I have opinions. I am fun but I worried these new people thought I was stupid, or snobby, or just awfully quiet. I wanted to go home, even though I was surrounded by tremendous beauty and wonderful hospitality.

The illness had followed me on vacation. And the juxtaposition of beauty and pain made me sick and insecure.

I wanted to be myself but the ulcers in my mouth stopped me. I wanted to make people laugh. I wanted people to like me and I was so afraid that they didn't. I wanted these people to be my friends and was afraid I was missing my only opportunity.

Sometimes I am struck by how different my life is from my peers'. Everyone gets tired and everyone's back hurts but my pain is different. It is cutting and unfixable and I'm tired and my back hurts too. One of the kids remarked on how much I napped and it broke my heart a little. I want to have their energy.

But all I really wanted was to be my self. The person who I am, the person I have worked to be.

A few days into the trip, I was having a good time but struggling, knowing how much better my time could be if I wasn't in constant pain. I took some very strong drugs and suddenly, the sores faded.

And I came alive.

I noticed the change in these strangers (strangers who I now call friends) attitude towards me. They were absolutely nice before, but now I felt like I was a part of something. I felt I had blossomed and bonded, just in time to make what I hope to be lasting connections.

I have friends who marvel that I travel when this ill. But I travel because I need to get out of my head. And feeling so sick while I was away truly challenged me. It crushed me.

Luckily, I had a great time. I saw beautiful places, met beautiful people. I bonded with children who will always have a piece of my heart. I spent time with my best friend and his kid. I met Jenn and Sara and Daniel and Rebecca and Kerry and Luke and Olive and Betty and Lucy and Henry and Thor and Rylie and I felt accepted and loved.

Traveling teaches me about myself. How to persevere and take that hike, despite the pain. How to speak by listening. How to reconcile rot with beauty, pain with treasured experiences.

This trip consoled me.

This trip taught me and showed me beauty. This trip reminded me that I am living a full life, despite the pain. And no matter what, I will keep doing it.

Cancer Turned Me Into a Hypochondriac

Hearing the words "You have cancer" at 21 permanently shifted my outlook on health. Although I've had lupus and an immune disorder since birth, cancer was confirmation that all my crazy hunches were right. Since the golf ball in my neck turned out to be cancer, what else might be lurking in my body, waiting for the sunlight to hit it just right?

More...

New Huffington Post Blog

Depression and Some Other Stuff

Hi. I haven't been here in awhile.

It's not that I don't have the time. Boy, do I have the time. I have the time to watch TV and babysit my niece and take long rides to the beach on the bike my legs are too short for.

I have the time. But writing or reading might remind me that I should write or read, and I don't think I'm ready for that.

But maybe I am. Yes. Here I am.

In May, I was put on a drug for nerve pain. I immediately had a bad reaction to it, and we reduced the dose. Two weeks later, I held a bottle of morphine in my hand and did the math.

It'd probably take a few of these plus a couple of Xanax to kill me. I held the bottle in my hand and thought about it, how I wanted to be dead without having to do it.

But I stopped.

I reached out and I got some help and I saw a guy, a doctor. He told me that the drug had caused a really bad reaction, making me suicidal.

I would describe myself as prone to depression. I have a million excuses: I've basically been bed-ridden for 9 months. I am living at home. I don't and can't work. Writing is fleeting when I feel like this. It's hard to get me out when I'm sick.

One thing stood out every time I thought about ending my life. My niece's face. It shone like a sun every time I collapsed into the blackness of my head, of my bed. I could never do it, I thought. I would never ruin my family and friends' lives like that.

But boy, did I want out. I wanted no more of the lupus, the pain, the depression. The loneliness and fear and boredom. I just wanted to sleep.

I don't know when I started to get a little happier. I think it was around when I booked my trip to Washington. That gave me something to look forward to.

Eventually the drugs flushed out of my system and I was no longer on the floor. But sometimes, I'll catch myself crying over nothing, though those days are less and less now.

I guess I wanted to say that there is where I've been. Under my covers, wishing the rain to stop and the sun to shine. Grasping for glimmers of summer and riding that until I am out of my bed and biking to the beach to see that sun rise.

If you feel the ways I've just described, please get help. Not everyone is going to understand but someone will, and they will save your life.

Thank you for your support. I am feeling less like a Cymablta commercial and more like a real person. I'm blessed. We all are.

I am out of bed and I am smiling and I wish the same for all of you.

I Fell Down a Bunch of Stars and Wrote a Rap About It

Saturday I was straight trippin

Itching to get my summer clothes

Went to my parents to search for robes

Found a bunch of sundresses to my delight

Little did I know I almost didn’t survive the flight (of stairs, doesn’t rhyme)

The pile of Forever 21 dresses lay in my arms

Barefoot, no socks to slip on

I approached the top of the stairs like I was pro

Been walking since I was 1, not to brag, yo

Made it down one step and much to my surprise

I almost had an untimely demise

I tripped then stopped then started again

When I looked up I was at the very end

I started to cry, man I started to scream

My dad found me face down in the stream (of blood, doesn’t rhyme)

My nose is bruised, my forearm broke

But I refused the ER, a $500 premium ain’t no joke

Been a few days and I’m all rusty and sore

This blog’s titled nine lives so again I endure

Can’t kill the Berg, can’t get her down

Maybe this summer I’ll up and drown!

END