Christie Currie
Yesterday some pretty amazing people put belief in me and a part of my vision. One of these people is someone I look up to a lot. The others are new people I now am lucky enough to know, learn from, and also look up to. I took a small step, and it ended up spinning into something, an opportunity, I never would have thought would happen in my near future. Read More
No. I did not stop writing. I just felt a little lost. It’s easy to write when the cancer is there, or right after. But, what you go through in your own mind once all of the hype has passed is messy and often dark. Every action I take and word I speak is my responsibility, I want to do it all with relentless conviction and courage and now I’m ready to start posting some of it. At least to me, all of these writings are like a timeline. A timeline of my evolution and journey. It is a surreal and enlightening feeling to go back through them one by one. I will continue to add to it.
I have been working a lot to understand myself, my values, and what I want out of life. Asking what it would look like at its most fulfilling. For me, fulfillment = impact. At the end of my life, I want to have left a big impact. I feel like I have been given a privilege, the privilege of perspective — not one many people get. The opportunity to change the way I saw myself, others, problems, and the world. I do not take that responsibility lightly. I know that I will always have the fear that whatever I am doing in life is not generating enough change/influence in comparison to the gift I was given.
I have been writing but not as much. Sometimes it takes me to a place that takes a few days to get out of. What I have written I have not posted because well, its proably only things I would understand. I am focusing on my goals and being happy. Trying to stay positive as I gain more confidence. My last scan was “clear”, but there are still some concerning areas they are watching closely.
I wrote this yesterday, January 21, 2017. One year since my surgery. Thank you to everyone who was there that day and the amazing people I have met along the way. You are all priceless to me.
The picture of the stadium is the view that I could see as they took me to surgery. The nurse stopped for a minute before taking me in and just let me look out. I wish I could thank him. I looked at all the life and movement that was going to continue to happen while I was under, completely unharmed and unaware. Now whenever I am around the James I always take a minute to think about those patients that are up there, about to have surgery… wondering if anyone down there even thinks about them. The second picture is what I saw right after, pretty self explanatory but thats a operating room at the James, completely lifeless. Just thought I would show what that day was like from a patient’s perspective.
One year ago. I can’t believe it. And here I am.
Sitting in my bed, typing this.
I feel heavy when I think about it.
Gravity gets stronger, I feel like I’m being slammed to the floor.
What am I supposed to do? Would you consider this an anniversary?
Should I mourn? Laugh? Cry? Smile? Celebrate?
I am overwhelmed. Read More
Sorry I’ve been completely off the blogging map…really never have time to sit down and write anymore with school. I also never have any energy so I can’t stay up late to write like I used to do. But, I miss it… a lot. I jot down thoughts every chance I get…I pulled a bunch of them together into this piece. Just came home this weekend for an MRI, found two small new bumps on my neck that are hopefully just nothing.
I like writing in this style, I just write the lines exactly as they come through my head. Really is just raw thoughts and feelings and it feels so good to get them out of my head. I’ll try to write again soon.
Sorry I haven’t posted in a while I was in the hospital for five days and very out of it. Anyways, I wanted to write this because nobody tells you what life will be like after it is over. So I’ll try to shed some light on it as best I can.
When the surgeries are finished, when your body recovers and reaches a semi-normal state for the first time in years you will find that the scars go much deeper than the skin and there is an aftershock. Everyone will be telling you how strong you are, but you won’t feel strong. When you are going through treatment and surgeries your body goes into some kind of shock that protects you and perhaps even saves you; you are very numb to everything going on around you. When the shock wears off, when the you and your body can accept that a trauma has happened, when you can let down your defenses, it’s a very scary moment. It’s vulnerable. More vulnerable perhaps than when the cancer was in you. You will be disappointed that not everything is as it used to be; as happy as before. You will be scared and live in fear no matter how badly you just want to leave it behind. Read More
I wrote this in pre op… I will most definitely be editing later but these are just my very rough thoughts in the midst of being put on the operating table for this 4-6 hour surgery and I just wanted to get them down…..Time to fight!!!
Sorry if this is dark, or if it makes no sense to any of you at all. But it’s 2am and these are the thoughts running around consuming my mind ….keeping me up. Today was a bad day.
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There you were;
The girl I wanted to be, the girl I was, but now don’t know how to be.
I am here and you are there.
It’s back, the cancer (along with its villainous propensities), ripping you away from me.
You’re being pushed out of my reach.
I finally had the life I wanted despite of everything that had been taken.
You were the girl who could do it all, had done it all.
I was strong, I never gave up, I fought to be you, that girl. Read More
The James published only part of this letter to their website. You can find it here: Young Woman Writes Letter of Gratitude to Cancer . But this is the full piece–A thank you… to My Parents, My Doctors, and My Cancer.
This piece was my common app essay for college applications……..
I blink. Trying to focus my attention on the hypnotizing beat of the heart monitor. I blink again. Bright lights beam down, nurses hustle around attaching blisteringly cold monitors to my body. I lay there as still as I can manage as the warm tears cascade down my cheek, no control over what is about to happen. This moment nearly three years ago felt almost entirely surreal – an oblivion, out of my body, out of my mind. In that moment, a matter of seconds in time, but a small infinity in terms of meaning, the only thing lying still inside my swirling head – the letter C. Cancer. My reality. But in that moment, right as I was about to go under, I made a conscious decision in the midst of my worst nightmare. I made the decision to embrace what the next years would bring with all the strength I had, because I knew that in the end, I would not only survive, but also be stronger.
Take What You Can 