Kelly Is Going Camping, or: The End.

This is goodbye.

No. Not really...OMG. I just pictured news of my death breaking. You're all in your pods, like in Wall-E, and my face is projected on CNN over the bio-dome for you, my loving minions family, to see. Kelly Bergin, blogger and failed writer, dead at 97. Underneath, it says: "Her last blog post was entitled How To Get Laid And PAAAAAIIIIIIIID In Your Nineties."

Yeah, I'm not going out with grace. (Or self-awareness.)

Anyway, this isn't my goodbye post...though after my upcoming trip, it very well could be.

Let's step back. Two weeks ago I found out I was awarded a VERY generous travel scholarship to go on a canoeing and camping trip in Colorado. I applied on a whim, at the advice of a friend. It's for young cancer survivors, post treatment. They fly me out there next week and we camp and float down the Colorado River for three nights.

Yes. Me. Kelly "The City" Bergin (new nickname, roll with it) camping. Paddling. Assembling tents. PEEING IN THE WOODS.

I have included a picture of the last time I attempted to camp. It was three summers ago and I never figured out how to put together my tent. Eventually, I made up some sort of ailment and went in the car to listen to Hanson.

But this time, I'll be surrounded by people way sicker than me!  I CAN'T FAKE SICKNESS, BECAUSE THEY HAVE IT TOO!

I just spoke with the generous woman who is putting the trip together. It was a semi-awkward conversation, due to the fact I have a lack of social skills and do not know when to shut up. As everything is a learning experience with me, I've included the following 'Don'ts' should you ever find yourself in this situation.

DO NOT:

Mention you're not a morning person and so the later the (free) flight, the better.
Ask if there's cell phone service on the river.
Wonder aloud if an iPad is a good thing to pack.
Mention you sleep cuddling your computer and then let it slip that you call your computer Computie.
Ask if the male to female camper ratio is in my favor. (Ch-yeaaaa!)
Ask if your nickname on the trip can be Kelly "Dead Weight" Bergin

(I would not be surprised if my application is being reevaluated this very second.)

Yesterday I dragged Kristie (who is also known by me and others as Big Red, Ginger, Bread, Krusty, Chauffeur, Woman Bring Me French Toast!) along to go shopping with me. We went to Wal-Mart, where I found a children's guitar and chased Red around the store, singing "Shop for me, my minion!" before she threatened to drive away without me or my stuff.

We then hauled off to the camping store to get the rest of my gear. I was only in Eastern Mountain Sports for five minutes before I had a panic attack. That store is more terrifying than a Tennesse Wal-Mart after midnight.

Everyone there looked so...fit. They didn't look like they ate Easy Mac at 2 am or strained a muscle lifting a five pound weight the night before. They were beautiful and strong and BETTER THAN ME. And I was laying on a camp hammock (on sale now, guys) while Krusty shopped for the rest of my stuff.

As I lay there, wondering why I thought I could paddle down a river for TWO WHOLE DAYS IN THE SUN, I saw a camping knife for sale! You know, for...I don't know what you use them for. For camping stuff.

However, I figured if I saw a bear coming, I'll just pull out the knife and kill myself before he can get me. Smart, right?

I leave on Wednesday and I'm pretty much settled and have everything I need, though I did just insomni-shop and buy myself a battery pack and underwater case for my iPhone. (I. Need. iPhoney.)

I also got some advice on Twitter, which urged me not to bring a bra on the trip. So it's safe to say I won't be making any friends nor cancer love connections on this adventure.

But part of me is hoping that this trip will trigger my outdoorsy, non-cynical side, as I eat organic meals, hike and listen to Kumbuya played on an acoustic guitar around a campfire. (Wow, I wrote that without gagging.) They even have a luau themed dinner for one night, but if I hear Jimmy Buffet, I'm breaking out Bon Iver.

I suppose I'll have to do my best and hope that when I move to California in 46 days, I will be ready to embark on a healthier lifestyle.

Or not.

See, this is how I prefer to camp. Beer in hand.

yesterday

Last week my doctor convinced herself

that I had melanoma.

So she cut some tissue out of my skin

and stitched me up in a few places, panic flashing across her face.

(I was worried. Do I get to admit that?)

(Am I safe in parentheses?) 

I waited two days for test results.

And on Friday, she called.

Caught early, pre-stage 1.

I’ll see a surgeon for more tissue excision

after I get home from Colorado in a few weeks.

It’s overwhelming, this carousel

of panicky doctors, always saying

There is something wrong with everything!

At night, I try not to wonder what it will be next.

There was no sun yesterday, so I was allowed out of my cave.

I don’t need much these days.

I don’t have much these days.

 And yesterday it was fine—

Just a crappy waterproof camera, a blistering hangover, my sister

and this dangerous, unruly sea,

Nature’s brutal reminder that there is no use in fretting

about what we cannot control.

(I needed that.)

That Time My Uncle Thought I Had Three Months To Live

My phone lit up three times as I sat in the theater next to Gen, taking in Friends With Benefits.

It was a message and a missed call from Katie: Call me ASAP. I left the theater, sure that someone had died. I had that sick feeling in my gut when you know you are about to hear bad news. (Or it could have been the bag of popcorn I ate. Or maybe the Junior Mints. Tuna sub? Beer? Probably the possible dead relative thing.)

"What's up?" I frantically screeched into the phone. Kate informed me that one of our uncles called her dad, freaking out that there was something wrong with my heart and that I had three months to live.

"I thought maybe you knew and didn't want to tell me," Katie said. I reassured her that I did not have three months to live. I had, indeed, gone to a cardiologist who noticed thickened heart valves and leakage in my valves, but it was fine. (For now. But can I have your heart?)

We laughed it off and hung up. I called my dad and told him to tell everyone I wasn't dying. And if I were, would I really be spending my last days seeing Friends With Benefits for the second time? (Well, maybe. It has a really good soundtrack and Mila Kunis Justin Timberlake is super hot!)

It got me thinking, though. If I had three months to live, what would I really do with my life?

What am I doing with my life now?

After I had cancer, I promised myself that I'd stick to my ONE LIFE! philosophy. But that philosophy was really just an excuse for irresponsible behavior. It could have applied to any young twentysomething in America. Oh, you woke up in Brooklyn in a strange apartment and you can't find your shoes? Oh well, ONE LIFE! Oh, you went to Paris with no money and now you’re in debt? ONE LIFE! You don't want to go to work because there's a Full House marathon on? That's okay, ONE LIFE!

One life. We really do only have one life. We really only may have three months, three seconds to live. I was reminded of this just last week, at a funeral for a woman so many of us loved. Shit, life is short, I thought.

I need to live better because some cannot. Some are already gone. I need to be kinder, and stronger, and more productive. Healthier. Because whether I have three or three hundred months to live, I am going to make them fucking awesome.

We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to others. After all, we only have ONE LIFE.

I am moving to Los Angeles.

I am moving to Los Angeles for the fall. And the winter. And the spring. And maybe for a little longer. I don't know yet.

In two weeks my lease is up on my apartment in New York. I have spent the last 7 years living in New York. The Bronx, first. Then Brooklyn. Then Manhattan.

I love New York. It's my home. And that's what makes it okay to leave for a little while, because I know it's where I will be in five years. New York is where I will have children. New York is where I will die, most likely because I jaywalked into a UPS truck.

So why go to LA?

Because I have wanted to, for many years. Because right now my gut says go, and I have never felt so strongly that now is the time. Because if you feel like you need to go to LA, you should probably go to LA.

Still: why go to LA?

Because I'm tired of New York, of rushing everywhere. And I'm sick from the subway and the noise.

In Los Angeles I will be outside more. I will swim more.  I will swim every day if I can.

I want to write my book at the beach. So after the summer, I am going to go to LA. (I'm either driving or flying. TBD!)

And why not this second?

Because I can't work/function full time right now. I'm going to freelance and work part time until I am better and then I'm going to go.

But you're sick. You can't be sick across the country!

There it is. The challenge. Can I be sick away from my family? Every single person I've talked to has brought this up. You can't do it, they say.

Fuck that, I say. I have let illness own my life for many years now. I stayed in New York City, even when I wanted to go far away for college. I didn't study abroad because everyone told me I couldn't. I didn't major in premed because everyone told me I'd get sick. I listened to everybody. I did. I listened to everyone.

And I am still fucking sick.

But don't worry, guys. I'll be careful in California. I'll wear sunscreen. I'll exercise more and eat better and I will live in Los Angeles. They even have doctors in Los Angeles! Best of all, they have medical marijuana in Los Angeles.

They have copywriting jobs in Los Angeles. They have better weather in Los Angeles. They have the sun and they have space, space for me.

And so I think that's what I am going to do. I think that after Labor Day, I am going to move to Los Angeles.*

*Unless I change my mind or am offered some sort of brilliant job in New York

Prednisone: What you done, girl?

I've been on and off prednisone, a corticosteroid, at highly toxic doses for over two years now. 


Long term use of prednisone is classified as six weeks or more. Not two years.

Here are a list of symptoms that my doctors have attributed to use of prednisone, including one glaring, obvious manifestation. (Do not say fat face. DO NOT SAY FAT FACE.)

Depression, mania, weakness and fatigue, blurred vision, abdominal pain, infections, acne, INSOMNIA (ding ding ding! We have a winner!), weight gain, crazy hunger, facial swelling and dizziness.* And diabetes, which is why I've been sticking myself with insulin every time I go on a high dose.

Prednisone works, so that's why it's been my go-to for the past few years. But it's made me slightly insane, and not in the good way that most drugs do. 


Here's an example of a good drug: in college, I got stoned and saw Willy Wonka. I thought all the Munchkins were tiny George Lopezes. It was frightening and sort of like being stuck inside a TBS commercial loop, but still sort of of awesome.


Here's an example of a bad drug: This morning, I got up at 5 and fell out of bed. Then I tried to walk to the bathroom. I fell into the wall. Then I sat on the toilet, and fell face forward onto the floor. A variation of this has been happening all week. I asked my doctor and she was all "Yeah. Prednisone."


But! GOOD NEWS! I'm tapering down from 60 mg and soon I'll be free of the drug. (This is where my pessimistic self says yeah, until next time dummy.) Last night, I took my first dose of Thalomid, a drug used to treat leukemia. The side effects of Thalomid are not pretty, no. But it's better than prednisone, which my endocrinologist said, quite simply and without a hint of a smile, would kill me. I'm 25.


So, to wrap up, my medically challenged friends: prednisone is evil. The new drug: lesser evil. And remember:  any sort of fat you might see on my body is the drug's fault and not from Twizzlers/beer/mac and cheese/funnel cake/fried chicken/soft pretzels/my feelings.


Stay off the drug if you can. Be happy you have good health. And donate money to autoimmune research so that no one--no one--ever has to suffer through prednisone's effects again.


*Note: this post has been slightly aided by Sarah Manguso's excellent memoir, The Two Kinds of Decay and various shit I Googled. ALSO BY MY LIFE.

Flashes of Wednesday

In the morning my body is awake before my brain.

Sometimes my mouth acts first, shouting out language from nightmares I will not recall in five minutes time.

It is a side effect from prednisone, one of the many that haunt me.

I step out of bed and look in the mirror, at the bloat in my face. I wish it away. I am modest but my face is prettier without the bloat. Sometimes, I perversely imagine a man looking back at me in a car and thinking "What a pretty face she'd have without all that fat."

I fantasize banging balled-up fists onto the back of his leather seats, screaming that it is not my fault. That I hardly eat, I hardly eat at all. I've lost my appetite so many times that Glucose Control Boost shakes are my treat of choice these days. (Shudder.)

I'm beginning to wonder if the man in the rearview mirror may be the nightmare I so rarely remember. Perhaps there is a reason we are meant to forget our terrors.

Since I was discharged Sunday, I haven’t been able to walk down the steps unaided. I have slept on the couch with the dog and the central air conditioning.

I eat sourdough pretzels to coat the morphine swirling in my stomach. The crumbs catch and fall downward into my open shirt.

I swipe them away, angrily. I've showered but I am still a mess, with a puffy face and a crumb-filled shirt. 

Summer is barreling forward, without a thought to my own affection for the season.

I've decided I won't cry out today, no matter the pain. I'll plant my feet firmly on the hardwood floors. I'll take a bicycle ride. I'll jump in the ocean. I'll hold Allie in my arms as we walk on the hot sand.

In time, the facial swelling will go down and in a year, I may be back here on this very couch. But it's entirely possible that I may be in a house I do not recognize. It is possible that this home--that this illness!-- will have disappeared.

In a year, my eyes may be brighter and my bones stronger. The prednisone may have left no damage.

But as I struggle for sleep, I think of what fears me. I realize that they are immeasurable, as thick as the love I have for my family, my dog, my friends, you. 

I'll speak out loud before I drift off, after this episode of Arthur. When I am alone, I need to hear my voice before the unrecognizable screams, escaping from my diaphragm, wake me.

Hold my hand, my love. That is what I'll say, before I go. Hold it, dear, all the way from here.

The Patented Kelly Bergin Recovery Process

The needles have been pulled, the wounds dressed, the hospital gown thrown in the corner. It is time to go home.

This is what happens next.

Step 1: Secure admission release. This first step involves copious amount of begging; it helps to pinch the inside of your thigh to produce some watery eyes. Waver your voice appropriately and repeat the following: "I haven't slept in days. Please, please let me go home." It helps to refrain from showering at this point; the stench alone will point to your release. No one likes a smelly Kelly.

Step 2: Lay down in your hospital bed as you watch various family members and friends gather up your stuff. For this phase, you'll want to switch into cranky mode. "MAKE SURE YOU PACK MY SWEET MASK, YO!" When this is forgotten, retaliate with one very swollen finger. (That mask made me feel like a goddamn superhero!)

Step 3: Take the last of your drugs from the nurse, knowing that you won't have access to Dr. K (Klonolopin) until you get home. Pass out for the car ride home. Note: this portion of the recovery will be very hazy and involves sending incoherent text messages. A choice one, from myself to my friend: "Call bike suit." I'm not sure what that means, and judging from his lack of response, I don't think he did either.

Step 4: Set up shop in your childhood bedroom. 

Step 5: Demand fan and sourdough pretzels. Refuse showering, as each step you take is wobbly and the last thing you need is a head injury. (On Saturday, I fell face forward into the tub whilst on the john, proof of my lack of strength.)

Step 6: Flood your minions with demands. "Apple sauce! Snapple! Sugar Free Twizzlers!" The sky is the limit, kid. Take full advantage. This is a diabetic's dream. Forget the protein, go with sugar free everything.

Step 7: Sleep. Dr. K has arrived in its bottled glory. Take a copious amount. Even though you will wake up every twenty minutes and continue to send questionable text messages, revel in the pain-free existence that K-dawg has brought into your life.

Step 8: Awake at sunrise and debate briefly taking Shea for a walk. One step out of bed proves your strength is not up for it. Crawl back into bed and watch and weep through the series finale of Family Ties.

Step 9: Stare in the mirror at the constellation of bruises from the Heparin shots injected into your stomach. Debate the best way to take a picture of this to send. Quickly realize that no lens in the world has the ability to siphon away this belly fat.

Step 10: Engage in brutal fight with Mother, who insists your smell is overwhelming the house. Hold your ground. You have earned the right to stink, and dammit, you will.

Step 11: Submit to shower. Reread the 100+ tweets you sent while under the influence. Question sanity and ability to function in society. Crawl back onto the couch and once again, yield to the power of mindless sitcoms on Comedy Central. Repeat the following mantra: "Sitcom, sitcom, slow death."

Step 12: Make goals for tomorrow, to add structure to your life. Suggestions include the following:

a) Go outside; a possible dip in the ocean is always healing

b) Find a freelance writing job, as your current life/work style is possibly unsustainable. (Help, Twitter!)

c) Find an apartment, as you must move in two weeks

d) Eat protein and lower your blood sugar so that you stop fainting

I think we're getting there, guys.