I wake up two minutes before my alarm with a vicious jolt. For a small moment, I forget what I have to do and marvel at the blue sky playing peek-a-boo with me. I feel an arm on my shoulder - my partner’s been awake longer than I have.
“Bad dream?” He asks.
“No,” I roll my eyes and land on my phone that’s shrilling loudly. The alarm name alerts me to my task for the day: Immunotherapy.
Watch: Talk to your family about their health history. Post continues below.
My body is awake but the inner me is not. I can’t eat anything and yet my array of little tablets that come in boxes and screw bottles say I must ingest them alongside food. I eat a muesli bar and pray it doesn’t come back up in the car.
Ever since I was diagnosed the first time with Melanoma six years ago and then again, four years later, I’ve succumbed to the inner autopilot that moves my arms and legs for me, that reminds me to smile when someone is nice or do the groceries. Everything is magnificently robotic, yet inside I’m broken. I tend not to feel much, but on infusion days I feel everything and nothing. I’m merely a shell that is pushed by the currents, only moving when forced.