Cancer

((This is an explanation of I peered into oblivion yesterday., but it also elaborates upon many personal struggles, chief among them the title of this post. I'd advise you to read the story if you haven't already. I warn you once again: if you do not want to hear about sensitive personal matters or are not mature enough to respect them, do not read this post.))

It takes staring at death and time to contemplate it to know what it means to truly live. In the very end, what moments will I remember? What moments will tell me how I lived and what good I've done? What moments will convince me that I've taken the short time I've been given and used it well? Because I've seen the end; I know how it feels; and I've asked myself all of these questions.

And the answer I came away with was that I'm not ready. Maybe it's natural to feel that at my age, but I look back and remember only working towards a goal—a meaningful and important one, but not a single moment that would tell me I made good on 2017. And when I look forward, I see myself doing the same—working towards a goal. The longer we do the same thing, the less things change, and faster time moves. Moments of life and beauty become sparser. Until years pass and I can't remember anything that happened.

I don't know when and I don't know how; none of us do. But I'm unlucky enough to be closer to death than almost everyone reading this. I want to feel I have a full collection of these moments whenever it comes. This post and this story, I hope to be one of them.

A few points to note about this story and this discussion: As should be painfully obvious at this point, while this is Fluttershy's stream-of-consciousness (SoC), these are fundamentally based on my thoughts of life and death. I don't purport to have the answer on these subjects, only my musings and cancer experience. (And pretending to have the answer at my age is monumentally moronic.) Keep in mind that whenever I make grand sweeping statements about "people" or "you," I usually only mean "within my limited experience." Furthermore, while I attempted to learn and adopt the trappings of the SoC narrative mode, I'm not an experienced practitioner; this is my first publication written this way, and it's no Ulysses. Finally, this story does not discuss religion. While death and spirituality and closely linked, this story concerns the nature of life rather than what happens after death.

And a few points about the elephant-sized tumor in the room: I was diagnosed a couple of months ago. Most of the gross tumors have been removed, and treatment is ongoing to attempt to eradicate the rest of it. I am not yet currently NED or in remission.

This story was birthed the moment one of my doctors said the word no one wants to hear.

It's green.

I know what green is. I thought I knew what green was. How many times now that people have said it, that everypony thinks you do, that you're the expert and everypony comes to you with questions. . . .

It's the first instinctual response people often have when confronted with their mortality, particularly cancer patients: to go out and experience nature with the undefined time they have. That's what Fluttershy's doing. As for why, I have it that she experienced some near-death experience outside of the traditional "villain to friendship" scenario. It may or may not be cancer; the specifics aren't important. As it is, this story is focused on the mental struggle, not the impetus.

What are you—No! Look!

Ants. Ants. Good ants. Look. The half-finished sandwich that somepony dropped on the dirt. I don't think it's littering is some other little critters can make use of it, and they are. [. . .]

This is a facet of the SoC narrative mode: frequent distractions, and it's a part of why SoC stories are hard to follow. The mind doesn't make a cohesive narrative—it jumps around capriciously. (It also explains why I'm loose with grammar in this story. Some SoC narratives use little to no punctuation at all.) Trying to write a cohesive story within this lens is one of the challenges of SoC.

No, I don't, I can't. I don't want to, it's all

Hide!

Mane, mane! It will hurt you. Somepony wants you. [. . .]

Fluttershy's thoughts are interrupted by a well-meaning samaritan asking her why she's stooping on the ground and whether she needs any help, hence Fluttershy's subsequent poor excuses. That dialogue doesn't show up within the narrative because she's distracted and never actually comprehends what the other pony said.

[. . .] Move. Do something. Ponies are looking. Ponies will ask questions, and I'm blocking the way, I know I am, I know I am. Move. Move. He's glaring at you, you're too weird. They're all glaring, don't look.

Her subsequent fretting also brings to mind that Fluttershy does not always tell the objective truth, tends to overdramatize things, and is somewhat self-deprecating. She worries a lot and doesn't necessarily think clearly.

You understand a little, you know how it feels, you know how many times it's happened before. What you do means you see it more times than almost anypony—except your best friends. They were with you, but I'm sure they don't have these problems. [. . .]

Fluttershy muses as to why, given her dangerous lifestyle, she hasn't given thought to the nature of death and making good on the time she has in life. This question is never answered within the story because while I can explain Fluttershy's particular case, I can't answer it in my own. All of us, especially in the "invincible years" of 15-40ish, take time and life for granted. When you see your own end, you think about what it means to live. I don't know why I didn't think about it before—life ends eventually either way.

I'm hoping some of you, by reading this story, give it a little thought as well.

No!

You just can't even . . . This is just awful, even when it's world-changing, even when it's world-ending, even when you were right there, it could probably all go by and you would have no idea. And then what? then what will you have? at the end of the day when it's all gone and even things as big as this don't matter and are long gone! [. . .]

Existential crisis much? It's cliché, but this is the spiral of thoughts you go into when contemplating death and dying (at least it is in my case). In the Kubler-Ross model of the stages of grief, this is depression. In contemplating death, you form irrational thoughts that only make sense at the time.

It's just so exhausting . . .

I don't want to fall like that. But I . . . But it's so important. I never did, and it's so stupid why I didn't. I need to make up. And I can't really think about it—ponies weren't meant for that.

It's mentally taking to think about death in the manner she did (for obvious reasons). As she says, ponies (and people) weren't meant to think about the after. Fluttershy also contemplates why she didn't think about what it means to use time wisely before this moment.

Every moment you missed. Every memory you didn't make. I want them back. I'm trying to make up for so much lost time.

[. . .]

I know more than I ever did back then, but that's the only one whose picture is so clear. I want sit in that meadow again, I want to be a little uncomfortable, I want to learn what it means to be surrounded by wonders, I want to remember everything little thing. It's a landmark and it tells me how I grew and what I experienced.

The concept of "moment" is very important in this story. Fluttershy provides several example when she reminisces in great detail: when she first fell to Ponyville, furnishing Twilight's castle, and the events of the movie—all of those are "moments." It's like how you might remember the first or last day of elementary school but don't clearly recall the days in the middle; some days form moments, and others don't.

[. . .] I barely remember the maze, what path they took through it, how much each of them moved. It's a wonder that they found their way through, something intelligent and worthy. It disappears, this disappears. In a week, what will I remember here? who will I have been speaking with? what time did I spend doing nothing I remember? They won't exist, this moment won't exist.

This begins elements of personal philosophy. In looking back on life in the way someone at the end of life does, these coined moments are the only ones remembered. Every other time in the past that doesn't form a moment is not. Once it's forgotten, it disappears and might as well have never happened. (I'm aware of the butterfly effect and "changing the past" tropes, but that's not the point.) It's like the saying, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" I'd argue that insofar as your memory forest, it doesn't.

In the end, you only remember scattered days in elementary school—in your memory, every other day doesn't exist. Fluttershy knows this moment will be lost, and she knows the fruitless attempts at observation earlier in the day will likely be lost, too, despite how much she wanted it to be one, having went outside for that express purpose.

A week ago, I was doing something. It's . . . it's hard. A month from now it will be harder, and later on it won't be there, no matter how special it might have been. It's lost, it never existed, I never lived it, and I'm a month older with nothing to say. I skipped it. I never lived.

It's this concept of lost moments that informs how Fluttershy sees time. In retrospect, the duration in memory that hasn't formed any moments is akin to not living for that duration. If you can't remember what happened back then, then you wasted that time.

But then . . . in a month this won't exist. So it doesn't matter anyway.

No, I can't, I still feel sorry. I need to, it's so rude if I don't. [. . .]

But it's also this mentality that leads to nihilistic thoughts. Nihilism is not very compatible with Equestrian (or Earthly) society, hence the subsequent backpedal.

Get up. It's almost dusk. I've been wandering for so long, this is bad. I should be getting

I don't want to! No, no, I don't want to. It's so normal there, I know it. I left Angel with instructions at home, and he's very cranky about it, why can't I just do it myself? [. . .]

Fluttershy doesn't yet want to return home because it's too "normal." Years in the workforce or years in boring classes are essentially the same "normal"—a part of everyday life but not remarkable enough to easily make moments, and in this train of thought, worthless. (This isn't saying moments can't be made in this situation, but they're packed less densely.)

Tell her? Tell any of them? They might just laugh at me for worrying about something so silly and selfish. And even explaining it would take a long time, it's so confusing. When did this come up, why are you thinking this, what are you talking about, they'll say. [. . .]

Explaining thoughts on mortality, what it means to live a worthwhile life, and forming moments that define it is not straightforward—clearly—hence the apprehension.

The door is so big when it opens, I'm still intimidated. Starlight? Where's Twilight? That's . . . of course she would be. Sounds like fun? She's inviting me. The door is still big when it closes. What's the matter? It's . . . complicated. I just want to be somewhere safe and quiet. I guess. Thank you.

Starlight is holding down the castle because Twilight is out doing something in Griffonia—again, the specifics aren't important (though I have it that she's recruiting for the school). She invites Fluttershy in but asks if there's anything on her mind since she was never very good at concealing emotions.

Surely she's studying up for a grand spell that we'll need. That she'll need to save somepony, everypony, like so many times before, like Twilight did. Change somepony's, everypony's life. That's important. That's life, that's something that will exist. That's something she'll remember.

[. . .]

I'm not. At home, in Ponyville, reminiscing about memories and what does and doesn't exist. They're doing important things, making moments. But I tried today. Ants and Firth and Cornicus, and I didn't, I know I didn't . . . and did too much like normal, right? Reminiscing about the first time you came to Ponyville and repeating the same things. A moment only works once.

Is that why? That has to be why.

Here is the beginning of Fluttershy's realization for what fundamentally makes moments, or what situation is most fertile for their birth: discomfort. It's easy to do what is familiar, but it's difficult to break new personal ground. In her case, it's easy to take care of animals, but difficult to voluntarily adventure and do things she perceives as "scary." This also explains why her prior attempts won't likely form a moment: they're too similar to what she normally does.

I remember a motivational speaking event a few years ago that said much the same: Everyone has a "island" they like to stay on, and venturing off of it is inherently difficult. But that's where personal growth happens and memories form.

This also forms the basis of a theory for why time appears to pass faster in later age. More is familiar, and less is uncomfortable; hence moments are made less often. And again, the duration of time that doesn't form a moment no longer exists in memory i.e. is skipped. (This is not an original idea; there exist several similar theories of aging made by smarter people.)

Growth, I'm getting better, I say to myself. Maybe I've gotten better at putting on a brave face? I question myself just as much as I ever did, talk to myself even more. Clearly. Growing and being able to step out and do things other normal ponies do, it happens, I know, and every adventure where I break out of my shell makes it a little easier, but it's so slow. [. . .]

Progress comes slowly; this is a conclusion/frustration shared by Fluttershy, myself, and many other introverted people. Personal growth and strides in this field are hard-fought and don't always stick. Confidence and proactivity aren't synonymous with forming moments, but they help. (In my situation, they certainly would.)

Glowing. The door is glowing, and a little pulse going around the frame. What are . . . her book is on the floor. Starlight? should I ask her? is she practicing something, practicing whatever spell she was looking up? The glowing stops, she turns around, looks at me. Locking the door. Locking the door? Just want to make sure I'm safe.

Imagine a nervous Fluttershy entering Twilight's castle, unwilling to talk about why she's nervous, saying she wants to be alone in a safe place, and glancing out the window periodically—you might assume the worst too.

You wouldn't say I haven't been living well, doing good, being kind, saving the world, not brainwashing an entire village to follow your cult . . . but you remember that. It's bad, of course it's bad, of course you wish it didn't happen. Maybe you want to forget, but I think apathy is worse, remembering something and regretting it instead of having nothing at all. [. . .]

I know a lot of people would disagree with me on this point, and I certainly wouldn't recommend people do unsavory things because they're memorable. But I've had that "life flashing before your eyes moment"; there just wasn't much to see. It's the regret of wasted time that makes you want to fill it with something. No one wants to die in the knowledge that their life meant nothing; moments provide that meaning.

I envy you girls so much. All of you. I'm jealous. And they would never forgive me being jealous.

Envy is a horrible emotion. Vicarious living just doesn't happen to me; it breeds regret.

And I'm sorry.

And maybe I should.

No.

No! Maybe I will!

Lots of things don't become moments, but some do. The moment you decide to change your life. The moment you resolve to improve yourself.

And the first thing I do is

go home.

And then reality hits like a ton of bricks. New Year's resolutions last two weeks on average, and ten years from then, you won't even remember what you resolved to do. Actions speak louder than words, and resolving to change something doesn't fix what extenuating circumstances made it difficult in the first place. Fluttershy's returning home is symbolic of that, but also literal; the daily grind interferes with forming moments.

Resolutions don't impel change. Relapse happens; you slip back to where you were before because it's more comfortable there. And nothing happens where it's comfortable. Then you forget. Fluttershy doesn't want that to happen anymore, nor do I. But I was never an optimist: I'm a realist.

Fluttershy might say it, but I don't know if it starts today.

This was never a story about cancer, and I never intended it to be one; that's not the point. These are my views on living well as told through the lens of a story, the mode most closely related, and the character most able to tell it. My perspective comes from what limited life experience I have and have accrued very recently. You may not agree with my views; that's fine. This story wasn't written to convince you, either. I know my view is a selfish one, but at the end of the day, your life is your own, and no one is lives or dies with you; memory keeps you company.

It shouldn't take until a catastrophic or end-of-life event to think seriously about what it means to live a good life; you only have one. At the very least, a healthy acknowledgement of the very finite duration a human life is, I think, a nice thing to have. I hope that by reading this, some of you might think about this, too.

But this is one resolution I want every one of you reading this to make. (If you skipped here because you didn't read the story or meat of this post, this applies to you too.) Call your family doctor and set up an annual physical with them if you do not have one. (Ladies, your OB/GYN is not your family doctor; you need regular appointments with both.) Attend it. Be truthful with them, including sexual habits. The purpose of an annual physical is to keep you healthy, so the fact that "nothing ever happens" is a good thing. There are an innumerable number of issues that can be avoided or mitigated through regular visits, including cancer. (Americans, if you are under- or uninsured, this tool will help you in locating care.)

Comments

[Sir Starshine]

I'm so sorry. I wish there were something more meaningful I could say.

[Loganberry]

I'll be honest, I haven't read the story. I'm honestly not sure whether I will. I came straight here because of the blog headline. All I can really say is that I'm thinking of you and that I wish you the very best with your treatment. I wish so much that there was no need for it.

[Taialin]

4964709
I appreciate your well-wishes. Shit just happens. (I'm not apologizing for that; cancer can go fuck itself and preferably implode while doing so.)

4964868
And I can respect that. This story is probably the most maximal-effort-for-minimal-payoff story I've ever written. (I have seven drafts of the thing because SoC is really hard, and this subject is no introductory topic to work with.) And while no story is above reproach, I'd surmise mine is difficult to read/review objectively.

[zx29b]

It is amazing how radically cancer changes a person's priorities. My wife got diagnosed with Stage 0 breast cancer last year, and she went straight to the double mastectomy. It's just not worth taking chances with, no matter the cost.

As for the story, I feel you on the difficulties with stream-of-consciousness. To me anyway, it seems like, no matter how simple you make the premise, building any kind of narrative within the format invariably results in a book's worth of material. Also, maintaining the reader's immersion in the protagonist requires constant effort and careful attention to the prose. Nicely done in that regard, by the way. You write a singularly characterful yet recognizable Fluttershy.

[Taialin]

5012147
Same here. Not the mastectomy, obviously, but a fair degree of overtreatment. At least you two caught it early—not so much on my end. And I appreciate you taking the time to read the story, however convoluted it is.