And in one weeks' time...

In six days, I'll pack up my room. I'll dump out the garbage bags that hold my stuff from my apartment in the East Village. I'll shove things into suitcases and I'll wonder how many pairs of underwear to bring.

How can I know how many pairs to bring when I don't know how long I'll stay? I'll need to go longer than the days of the week. But how much longer?What do the Good People® do in this situation?

With a week to go before I leave, I am focused on the very small picture, the one that fancy TVs have at the bottom of their screen. I'm focused on the E! channel and not CNN.

I'm wondering about the silly things, the tiny minutiae of daily life. I'm thinking about bathing suits and gym memberships. About car insurance and tire changes and whether I should get AAA. (Or if I should go to AA.) I'm asking Rachel--are there good laundromats in LA, like Kim's Laundromat in NY, who faithfully did my laundry every two weeks for $15? It only took them two hours to clean, wash and fold. Will I find a place? Will I do laundry on my own in Los Angeles?

What I really mean is this: will I be different in Los Angeles? What will be different in Los Angeles?

I'll drive. I'll drive in LA, and that's new. I'll buy a car and look for jobs and put on black pants that are too tight and I will go to interviews. I'll babysit. I'll go back to Skylight Books. I'll be happy when my friends are visiting, and I'll be sad when they leave. I'll sigh peacefully at the beach and sigh woefully in traffic.

In a week, I will live in Los Angeles.

--

After I wrote this, I looked through my old Flickr stream and what did I see but this--

November 2008. My first solo trip to California, a trip where Rachel and I pinky swore that we'd live here together one day. She was already there but I was in New York, home.

I came home on the red eye the Monday after Thanksgiving. I got out of my relationship and moved into Brooklyn and then the Lower East Side and then the East Village and there were other jobs, and boys, and fun mistakes but the entire time, I thought...

I just know I'll go to California one day.

I was right.

It just took some time to get here.

Sayonora, summer.

I quit my job and left New York on August 1st, almost two full months ago. That's a simple fact, something I can grasp and understand and remember.

It was a strange summer. But when August came, I was at home and so was Gen. We decided to enjoy our August, our late-summer regression.

And we did. We floated between bars in Asbury Park and Belmar, making bad decisions, proving that although we have learned much since we were 20, sometimes it was okay to forget that for awhile. We were on the rebound, from jobs and school and relationships and emotion. "We literally have nothing to lose!" became our battle cry, before we swilled down cheap vodka and set off into the evening. One step forward, two steps back.

When the morning broke, I walked the dog and felt myself--my body, my brain, my heart--settle. My heart rate slowed. I threw out the Xanax. My thoughts became simple sentences, a break from the anxious meanderings that have so dominated the last three years.

I slept better than I have in years. I slept through July, August and September.

But with the quick passing of this month, I know that summer is over. That our lapse from real world responsibility is gradually coming to an end and with it, a change.

I'll leave here in 12 days and wonder what Los Angeles will bring. I'll look into the future with something new--optimism.

I have always been able to predict the bad, the shitty things. When I was young, I was sure I'd get cancer one day. (I did.) This year, I knew I wouldn't go a year without a hospitalization. (I was right.)

These things are no accident.  There is a reason that I have been stubborn and there is a reason that I am finally changing.  

Thoughts become things.

I've let myself wade through it all, an innocent passerby to my own life. But this summer, for all its regression and wine, taught me the value of playing an active role in your life.

And it feels like waking up.

In Which I Try To Become A Better Human Being, or: Camping.

 

My name is Kelly, and I'm a dependent human being. (Hi, Kelly…)

It's common knowledge to all those close to me that I'm sort of...lazy. And tired. My family and friends (more commonly known as my minions) have been known to cook for me, to get me water when I ask for it, and to do my laundry when I'm sick all of the time. It's pathetic and embarrassing, but also so funny! For everyone to joke about! And um, really convenient for me.

So when I signed up to go camping in Colorado for a few days, I knew I was going alone, still weak from the past few months years. I was aware of the distinct possibility that I,  Kelly "The City" Bergin, would have to to pack my own bags and actually paddle and camp and do all that stuff. By myself. Without cell phone service to even tweet about the horrors.

(I think most people would be nervous to be stranded in the desert with complete strangers, but I woke up in cold sweats dreaming about having to put together my own tent.)

But I survived. I think I may have even thrived, for a few seconds there. My nickname on the trip became 2.0, because I constantly noted how a new version of Kelly Bergin was emerging. Kelly, 2.0.

There's something to be said for actually stepping out of your comfort zone, instead of just dreaming about it. I talk a lot of shit about ways I am going to change—plans to eat better, go to sleep earlier, exercise, write…but I never actually do it. Instead, I end up eating Fruity Pebbles at 3 am and watching montages of ER's famed couple Carol and Doug on YouTube. (This is totally not happening right now.)

I came back from the trip renewed, motivated to actually make some tangible changes in my life. This was never more apparent than yesterday, when I stood in a place far more foreign to me than nature: the cookbook aisle.

I haven't actually opened Vegetarianism for Dummies yet, and I did just send a panicky text to Gen asking if I could still eat eggs, but I'm confident that my new diet and exercise plan will make me feel better. And although I’ve had this fleeting thought before, I’ve never actually believed that I could feel better. I've only ever known what it's like to be sick and dependent on others for help. Illness is so deeply entwined with my identity that I wonder who I might be without it. I might just be someone who does her own laundry and doesn't use the motto "one life!" as an excuse to drink and accidentally make out with men who have neck tattoos.

I've spent so long stubbornly avoiding change, because I believed that by changing to accommodate my illness, I would not be normal. And for years, that is all I wished to be.

I felt something new as I paddled (okay...floated) down the Colorado River. For the first time in a long time, I felt empowered to gain control and take responsibility for my own life. Peace, in the form of a one way ticket to Los Angeles and a vegetarian cookbook.

And that's all I really want.

Postscript:

Important Things I Learned From My Trip:

1) How to pronounce quionoa. Hint: it does NOT rhyme with granola. Lesson learned.

2) When attempting to moon an Amtrak train that runs parallel to the river, watch your ass on the rocks. I have a bruise on my tailbone the size of Colorado.

3) Colorado is pronounced how it's spelled, not COLORADAAAAA (that one's for you, Mom.)

4) I can go 4 days without Junior Mints, shattering my previous Mint-free record of six hours.

5) Usted is not pronounced YOUSTED.

6) Never ask how many feet sea level is if you want to be taken seriously as an intelligent adult. (Note: It's zero.)

Post-postscript:

Please consider checking out and donating to Solo Survivors. And thank you to everyone who made this trip possible— especially Tracy Maxwell and Alli Ward. Connecting with other cancer survivors was truly an amazing experience, and I remain in awe of those I met on the trip. Thank you.

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