I had my third chemo treatment yesterday. The armor was severely damaged by the time the treatment was over. I got through the treatment because I shared the treatment room with two wonderful breast cancer warriors. I had met both of these beautiful women before and it was so calming and comforting to be there with them. We laughed and shared a lot. One I have mentioned to you before: the true warrior, the one with the children and grandchildren, who told me she has too much to live for. She was getting an additional injection to help with one of the side effects (osteoporosis) and the nurse asked her to read the possible side effects. She read some of them out loud to us and said, “This is why I never read these things. They scare you to death.” I totally agree with her. If you read those inserts, you will run away screaming and never look back. The true warrior said, “I think I would rather have osteoporosis than any of these side effects.”

It’s funny how the conversation changes when you are with other cancer warriors. You talk about triple negative or triple positive, lymph node involvement, radiation (how many treatments), and you never have to explain anything. We have all educated ourselves and it has changed us and changed our language. I really enjoy spending time with these women; it gives me strength to continue this battle. The true warrior is ahead of us in her treatment regimen. She has finished chemo and started radiation. She informed us that after chemo, radiation is a breeze. She has completed 12 of 36 radiation treatments – one-third of the way done. The other cancer warrior and I are on the same schedule. She and I have one more treatment, then the 36 radiation treatments. It will be an honor to walk through this part of the journey with her.

This third treatment has been the most difficult so far. The fatigue is almost overwhelming and the chemo brain is really bad. So bad that my wonderful friend Diane, who is editing these posts for me, will have her work cut out for her on this one (thanks, Diane). The chemo brain really drives me crazy – I cannot think. I know the words I want to say, but that is not what comes out of my mouth. Last night, my dog Finn was making a racket in his crate, so I called for him to stop. But instead of yelling “Finn!” I yelled “Cancer!” Lorene, who was taking care of me last night, looked at me and just started laughing. I also had a great visit with wonderful friends Diane and Laurel last night. They brought me my favorite comfort food, mashed potatoes. Yummy good.

The good visit with friends and the wonderful care I am receiving helps to restore my armor. The armor took a beating yesterday. When I checked out of the clinic yesterday, the wonderful woman who always helps me looked at me and asked, “How are you doing today?” I just looked at her and she said, “I am just going to be honest: You look tired today. You usually are so up that I can tell a difference.” I told her that she was correct.

It is true – I am very tired. The treatments are taking a toll. It is harder to keep the armor in good repair, but I am trying. But it is taking more and more out of me and I am so grateful for all the support I am receiving. I really think that it will be all of you that get the armor ready for me for the last treatment. I am weary, so I thank all of you for getting me prepared for this last chemo battle. The warrior will be ready, with the most loving armor ever.

Okay, so I have waited about as long as I can stand to without writing.  The weekends are always tough for me and this one is no different.  It is easy for me to hide from life and myself, but writing changes all of that; writing makes me be honest with myself.  Sometimes it is easier to hide, but for me it is not healthy. So I write.

It is on the weekends that my mind drifts to the last relationship I was in and I try to make sense of the whole mess.  I try to understand what happened and why, but it still makes no sense and I feel alone.  With chemo on Tuesday I know the week ahead will be rough, so I try to concentrate on getting ready for battle. But I feel the most vulnerable right now. The armor is off and the thought of putting it back on this week is difficult.  The armor is getting heavier and the battles seem to come too close together. But come Tuesday morning I will be ready.  Head held high – armor polished and in great repair – spirits will be good so I can fight another round.  I will be ready. Bring it!

The start of the weekend was pretty eventful.  It seems like it has been raining here for weeks.  I don’t mean a little drizzle every now and then – I mean RAIN!  Crazy rain!  I have a small pond in front of my house that I enjoy quite a bit.  I love sitting on the front porch watching the turtles, fish, and dragonflies and listening to the frogs.  But with all this rain, the pond is starting to overflow its banks. My driveway goes across the top of the dam and some of my friends are a little freaked out with so much water on the roadway.  I try to keep an eye on the drain to make sure it is clear and that water is flowing during times like these.

After work on Friday, I was driving across the dam and checked the drain.  I thought, “What the hell? . . . Is that a small alligator tail sticking out of the drain?”  I drove to the house and waited for the rain to slack up.  As soon as I could I walked down the drive and looked. It wasn’t an alligator but a snapping turtle, head down in the drain.  I could not believe it. I knew it was dead and that broke my heart, but I had to get the damn thing out of there. It was plugging up the hole.

I called my friend Kim and explained the situation. The same thing happened at their pond but she could not remember how they got it out. Kim wasn’t sure what to do so I called for backup, and soon Lorene was on her way with a long, hooked stick. I met her in the driveway with a pitchfork. I had no idea how to get the thing out of there but I knew I would need to get in the pond.

I look at Lorene and asked, “Do you think you should tie a rope around me?” She looked at me like I was crazy.  I don’t think she was willing to attach herself to this crazy baldheaded woman and risk being pulled into the pond right along with me.

So I grabbed my pitchfork and put it as close to the drain as possible. Okay, the water will not be over my head – that’s good.  I turn around and say, “I need to get into the pond. Do you think I should take off my boots and jeans?”  Again, Lorene looks at me like she cannot believe what she is hearing and says, “I don’t think that is such a good idea.  Just what your neighbors need: to see you with your bald head in your underwear carrying a dead turtle.”

Okay, boots and jeans stay on. I take the step and reach for the turtle. Then the girl in me comes out. “I don’t want to touch it,” I say.  But the biologist in me says, “Wow – what I great shell!” So I grab the damn snapping turtle and pull him out of the drain. He is heavier than I expected and I am off balance.  I step backwards to the bank and my foot slips.

Now I am on my ass sliding into the water, and the harder I try to get up, the more I keep slipping and sliding back into the pond. I am in the poison ivy and briars but I cannot let go of the turtle now because I want the shell. I am cussing, kicking and pulling myself up the bank. I’m not sure but I think I hear Lorene laughing. I’m just thankful she didn’t think to videotape the whole thing. I am finally back on my feet and on the driveway. And now I am just sick about this poor guy.

You might remember that I wrote a post about a nasty-ass snapping turtle. Lorene was involved in that crazy adventure also.  That one had a good ending: We saved the turtle and we still feel good about it.  This time we had a different outcome – a funny story but a sad ending.

I want to live my life so that it is filled with fun stories and great adventures, but I realize that along with all the good stuff comes the bad stuff also.  Sometimes there are happy endings, sometimes not.  But that is life, right?  We never know from one moment to the next what is going to happen.  I am glad I don’t know how my story ends – I like the adventure and unfolding of things.  This has been a rough year for me so far, but I have learned so much and I would not change one thing about it.  So I would like to thank all of you who are reading this and supporting me.  I love you. Life is a mystery.

Have you ever gotten in your car and turned on the radio and heard a song you’ve listened to a thousand times – but somehow that day it seems different? That happened to me yesterday on my way to work.  I heard Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down A Dream.”  I’ve heard it many times before, and even have it on a CD, but yesterday the words just spoke to me.  I guess it’s like the saying goes: The teacher will appear when the student is ready.  I finally heard the words, and it was a little gift on my way to work.

If you are not familiar with the song, the chorus is:

Yeah, runnin’ down a dream

That never would come to me

Workin’ on a mystery, goin’ wherever it leads

Runnin’ down a dream

When I heard those words, I thought, “Wow – that is exactly how I feel.”  Something has changed in me since I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  My world has changed.  I have never written anything before – never even thought about trying.  After my first chemo, sentences just started popping into my head.  I could not fall asleep because of the stories that started playing in my mind.  Finally, I thought, “Write some of this down.”  I did not think I would share it with anyone.  But then I did.  And I have been totally amazed at the response.

So this is what my life feels like now: that I am running down a dream.  I have no idea where the dream will lead . . . but I feel like I am on my path.

Another part of the song says:

I rolled on, the sky grew dark

I put the pedal down to make some time

There’s something good, waitin’ down this road

I’m picking up whatever is mine

So far this year, my sky has grown dark, but I just keep rolling down this road.  I do believe that there is something good waiting.  That is the faith that I have talked about. It takes faith to walk through the dark and believe that something good is waiting.  If I did not believe or have faith, I would never be able to keep walking, never be able to see the light shining at the end of this tunnel. I have been truly blessed, not in spite of having breast cancer but because of it. I have started down a new path. I have started running down my dream.

Maybe you think my last post was full of darkness and depression – but really it was not.  I have learned to live my life in the balance between the two worlds of depression and joy.  I have spent my whole life dealing with these issues.  I am comfortable with the two.  I have learned that my depressions offer me a true blessing.  I would never have learned the spiritual lessons that I have learned without the darkness.  That is a time of true faith – just believing that as long as I continue walking I will come out on the other side.  Those times are hard times but they also amplify the joy and happiness once I reach the other side.

I mentioned the word faith.  Faith – what is it?  I know the definition and I am sure you do too.  But faith to me is just putting one foot in front of the other.  I have no idea what will happen along this journey, but I do know that if I just keep walking the path, the way will open.  Faith is the reason I can put my armor on every 21 days and face the chemo and the sickness.  Just do what is in front of me and keep walking.

Faith also brings up the subject of God and religion.  I always say I am not religious but I am spiritual.  Religion is a strange thing to me.  So many people do things in the name of religion or God that I just do not understand.  The God or Spirit I believe in is loving, kind, accepting, understanding, and gentle.

I have two sisters, one older, one younger.  I am right in the middle, with about 6 ½ to 7 years separating me from both of my sisters.  We all grew up with the same parents, same house, same environment, and same religion.  My older sister has been very caring and supportive during my battle with cancer.  My younger sister has yet to call me or send me a card.  Her family is deeply religious and since I am gay they do not have anything to do with me.  It has been very hurtful, but if the situation were reversed, I would be there for her.  So I cannot believe in a God or a religion like that. I choose to believe, but in what I am not sure.  I do not have to have all the answers; I just need to have faith and believe.

As I was sitting on the front porch tonight, all these thoughts were flooding my brain.  I wondered what I would miss the most if I died.  And at that very moment, I was listening to the frogs and cicadas, watching the lightning bugs, feeling the wind on my face, looking at the goats and dogs, feeling at peace with myself and with nature – and I knew that is what I would miss.  My own little piece of heaven.  That, to me, is God.  I read a quote by Frank Lloyd Wright that pretty much sums it up for me: “I believe in God, only I spell it Nature.”

I am beginning to renew my mind and spirit and polish my armor, for I have a battle starting next Tuesday.  The mind, body, and spirit must all be well rested and ready to walk in faith.

The weekends are the hardest for me.  Even though I have been overwhelmed with the outpouring of kindness shown toward me during this time, it is on the weekends when I am by myself that I miss being in a relationship.  It is hard to try and pull all this stuff together by myself.  It is during the early morning hours when I cannot sleep that my mind starts pulling me toward the darkness.  I have struggled with depression my whole life.  There are times when I fall so deep into the dark hole that it is hard to see even the smallest pinpoint of light.  I have had people tell me that it is the dark night of the soul.  It is never easy to walk through this time–but walk I must.  I cannot afford to get pulled under forever.

This week is a time to prepare my armor for battle.  I need to get all the people and all the material things together that I will need to face chemo on July 9th.  Damn, it seems like I just did this, but it is time again.  Gather all the things that must be gathered to make it through that week.  It is easy to say “live one day at a time,” but I already dread the chemo.  I dread it because of the sickness but I realize that with each treatment I am one step closer to being finished.  Now that will be a time to celebrate.

So why is it that during this time, I feel so alone? I have faced many battles on my own, and most of the time I am fine dealing with and making decisions during this battle with cancer.  But sometimes, in the stillness of my room, I feel tired, scared, unprepared, and unsure of myself.  I think the world sees a brave warrior walking each step of this battle, but behind the armor it is just me.  Just me.

It would be so nice to have someone here to hold and comfort me during these times.  Someone who I could borrow a little strength from every now and then.  Someone to help polish the armor and secure it around my body before battle.  But that is not what I have at this time in my life.  I have made lots of poor decisions as far as relationships go, and right now–today–this is where I find myself.  Fighting the battle of my life, surrounded by friends, family, and my loving animals.  It has to be enough. It is enough.

Last night was the first night I have spent alone since my chemo on June 18th.  It felt good to be alone in my little house but also a little unsettling.  It is during these few days that I seem to have the hardest time emotionally.  The chemo and the sickness behind me–another battle won–now it is time to relax and prepare for battle again.

The chemo treatments are 21 days apart.  It seems like a long time but by the time you get over being sick and fatigued there is only a week to go before the next treatment.  It seems odd, but this is the time when “it” seems real.  In the heat of the battle, there really isn’t time to think.  Now, the mind starts thinking: You have cancer. What does it mean? Will it come back? The armor is off and in need of repair.  This is a vulnerable time.

Seems odd, huh?  You would think that it would be during the chemo and sickness that I would feel that vulnerability.  But you see, that is when the armor is at its strongest.  The time that I am ready for the battle.   This is a battle of another kind.  A battle against myself.  A struggle between depression and joy, both of which I know well.

When my goats were attacked by the dogs, I cried to Kim, Lorene, and Sylvia that I had lost my joy.  Sitting on my porch watching those crazy goats brings me a lot of joy.  I am just a country girl; I like being outside and watching the world.  Not the world of traffic and people hurrying by but the world of nature–the birds, the bugs, the rabbits, the squirrels–just all the critters that surround me in my little world.  Sitting in the swing on the porch, being surrounded by the things I love and watching the goats that I bottle-fed from a day old: That brings me joy deep down in my soul.

The night they were attacked and we took them back to the barn I said, “I have lost my joy.”  But three of the four survived and they are back home with me now. They have changed and so have I.  All three have suffered injuries; Javier limps, Tupelo has a hole across the bridge of his nose, and Honey Badger still has wounds and does not have the use of one of his legs.

But this morning, I sat on the porch and watched the three of them in the yard.  As they hobbled about, I again felt that joy.  Not the same as before, because now we all have been changed forever. But still a joy.  We are here and we are alive and we are together. That brings me joy.

So my life has been changed forever.  Hearing the words “You have cancer” changed my life.  Took away a little of the joy.  But I am still here and I know that the joy will return.  Might not be the same, but it will return.  I do believe that it takes going through darkness to know what joy really is.  So I will work through this upcoming week and prepare not only my body armor but also my mind, heart, and soul for the next test.

Wow! What an amazing day! With all the wonderful things that happened today it almost feels like a dream. I had to go back to the cancer clinic for an appointment to meet my survivorship counselor, recheck my WBC count, and maybe get another WBC-stimulating shot. The thing about the Neupogen or Neulasta injection is that the side effects are not pleasant–a lot of bone and joint pain. Since I got the Neupogen yesterday I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night due to pain in my lower back and hips. I was really hoping that the WBC count would be up today and I would not need another injection.

My two wonder exes, Lorene and Sylvia, decided to go with me today. These two are incredible. They have been my greatest supporters and the most wonderful caretakers from the very beginning of this journey. They have seen me when the armor has been stripped completely away and have held me and comforted me through each of these vulnerable moments. The love I have for them is beyond words.

My appointment is at 9 this morning and we get there in the nick of time. Of course, as usual, the wait to be called back is about an hour. I have learned that that is the way it goes, so I use the time to write or talk to people, like the couple I met yesterday. Lorene, Sylvia, and I spend time laughing and catching up.

I am in the process of catching Sylvia up on the goats and other things when I see the couple from yesterday walk in. I could not wait to go over and see them. I walk up and they both smile. He is there getting prepped for his first chemo today. He says, “I was hoping I would see you today. I told everyone about you yesterday. I told them I met an angel.”

I looked at him and smiled and said, “You know what? I’ve met a lot of angels since being diagnosed.” He said, “Me, too.” I replied, “I think that our eyes have just been opened now and we are just aware.” His wife looked at me and nodded. He said, “I even told my ducks about you” and smiled.

We had to stop there because they were being called to the back. I looked at him, “Take care–good luck.” My heart hurts for them. The road is long and filled with ruts and holes; I sure hope it can be an easy journey for him. Just be open and see what the universe brings my way. This journey has not been easy but it has been worth it. I had no idea how much I could learn, how much I could care, and how much I love this sweet world until this journey began for me.

I get called for my appointment and Sylvia, Lorene, and I meet with the counselor. This is just what I need. Some help to put all the pieces together; some help to get me through the treatment process and into the next stage of being a survivor of breast cancer.

After the session, we head to the lab for blood to be taken so we will know the WBC count and if I need another injection. I am sitting in the lab, Sylvia and Lorene are in the hall behind me. I see the Supreme Court decision on Prop 8–I hand my iPhone to them–we are all smiles. Sylvia says, “Now we can get married.” Lorene says, “Not all three of us” and we all start laughing. It is a good day. Joy in my heart. I cannot believe it.

The tech comes over to draw blood and we wait. She returns, smiles. WBC normal–no injection. Wow, really? Such a relief. I knew that cheerleading skirt was good for something. We check out, everything still on schedule. Next chemo July 9th.

Not long after leaving the clinic we get the news about the Supreme Court’s decision on DOMA. I am overjoyed. I had fallen in love with Edie ever since watching Edie and Thea: A Very Long Engagement. A woman with such love, courage and strength–a true inspiration.

So today I feel like I am sitting on top of the world. It feels good but I know not to get comfortable. Life has to be lived one moment at the time. Every precious moment is worth living, the good and the bad, because there are angels everywhere. I just need to be aware every minute of my life.

Yesterday’s visit to the clinic brought disappointing news. My white blood cell count has dropped–no, really plummeted. The doctor is very concerned. He sent me home with antibiotics and antivirals. Also, another shot to stimulate WBC production. WBCs are basically your immune system, and with a low WBC count my body will not be able to fight off infections.

Since my body needs help–antibiotics to fight off bacteria and antivirals to keep viruses at bay–now it is a waiting game. I have exchanged my armor for a cheerleader outfit since I am at home. Rooting on the WBCs to win this game. I shake my pom-pom and yell, “Push ’em back! Push ’em back, way back!”

I am definitely not comfortable in the cheerleader skirt; I am ready to put my armor back on and fight this battle. But first, I need those damn white blood cells to do their thing.

A week after chemo, I am back at the cancer care for my check-up. I walk in and the receptionist behind the counter recognizes me–that can’t be good.  “Hi, Ms. Scott.”  I convey that I am surprised she remembers me and joke that it probably isn’t good; she is seeing me too often.  No longer any need to explain who I am and why I am there.

Parking lot full. Waiting room about 1/2 full.  Driving in today my mind is flooded with thoughts. I got sober and clean in a 12-step program, have been clean and sober over 25 years.  I have seen people from all walks of life.  Alcoholism does not discriminate; all are welcome–doctors, lawyers, musicians, presidents, beggars, homeless people, and people just like you and me.  There is no charge for meetings; all that is needed is a desire to stop drinking.

Sitting here in the waiting room, I realize that is just the way cancer is: it does not discriminate. But you know what? Treating cancer is not free. I am lucky; I have pretty good insurance, and most of my care is covered under my policy.  But what about others?

I look around and I can tell some of the people here cannot afford care.  What then?  Not only do they have to worry about the cancer but about how in the hell to pay for treatment.  Stress is not good for recovery.  Hard to keep your armor up with all these outside forces clinging and pulling constantly.

I eavesdrop on conversations going on in the room.  There is an old warrior, around 60, not far from me.  She grew up around Folly Beach but now lives in this area–“landlocked”–jokes about the beach at Fort Yargo.  She is talking to another woman who is also in her 60’s.

This woman’s hair is starting to grow back and it looks like her granddaughter is with her.  The granddaughter never stops rubbing the woman’s head.  I totally understand–I like rubbing my bald head also.  The two women are talking and other people are listening; I can tell because I see others nodding their heads as the first woman speaks.  She had lung cancer, and now the cancer is in the lymph nodes in her chest.  Terminal.  But she says no. “I have grandchildren to raise and God knows it.  He knows what he is doing.”  She believes that everyone’s days are numbered and only God knows how long we each have.  God took a 10-year-old but look at her, 60 and still here. Why?

The ladies drift in and out of different conversations.  Paula Deen’s name is mentioned and I just about fall out of my chair.  The waiting room is full of people of all colors and I am sure all religions.  These are two Southern women who feel that Deen is getting a raw deal.  Thankfully that subject passes quickly and we are back talking about cancer.

I am trying to write all this stuff down when a couple takes the chairs next to me.  These two are great. He is wearing blue jean shorts, a polo shirt, and a cowboy hat.  She looks scared and nervous. I can tell he is the one there for treatment. He is pale but looks at me and I say, “What’s up, dude?”

She is handling all the paperwork and walks away to discuss it with someone.  He smiles at her and says, “You take care of that and I’ll talk to her.”  He smiles and says, “Tell me about the chemo.”

I am like, “It’s not good.”  Then I feel bad for saying it so I just tell him about the fatigue.  We laugh. He had to have radiation first, then chemo.  Starts chemo tomorrow; he has lung cancer and cancer in his hip.  He asks about mine. “Breast cancer.” He says, “At least you can lick that. Mine is terminal.”  I say, “But you are alive today.”

He is a guy who has always worked hard, probably construction.  He started feeling more fatigued than normal. Lost 30 lbs., started worrying.  His wife took him to the hospital.  He told me the doctor almost cried when he told him he thought it was cancer.  Of course, his wife broke down and he tells me she is still having problems, crying and upset today.  He said–to both of them–no use crying over spilled milk.  We talk more and just enjoy helping each other get through the day.

His wife walks up and says, “They are going to charge us $15 to fill out the paperwork.”  She says, “I will find $15 somehow.  I borrowed money from my sisters to pay the last two bills.”  I look at her and say, “I will pay it.”  She starts crying. He says, “You don’t have to do that.”  I walk to the counter and give them the $15.  The receptionist says, “That is very nice, Ms. Scott.”

I don’t know; it just felt like the right thing to do.  I spent the morning drive thinking about people without insurance and the universe put them right in front of me.  Cancer, like alcoholism, is an equalizer.  It is just unfair that medical treatment puts so many people in debt so they not only have to struggle with the disease but also the financial burden that is placed on them.

I go back and sit down with this couple and we continue to talk.  They live in Walton County, have been married 18 years, have two children, live in a trailer park, and have no insurance.  I tell them about my morning drive in. They show me pictures of their kids.  We exchange phone numbers. He talks about God and how he cannot understand how he ended up with cancer.  He knows guys who smoke five packs a day – he only smoked one.  How did he get it and not them?

I do not have an answer.  I know that the God I believe in did not give me cancer.  I believe that bad things happen sometimes.  I do not think God sends hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, cancer, AIDS, or any other horrible thing.  Bad things just happen.

There is an Iris Dement song I love called “The Night I Learned How Not to Pray.” Part of the lyrics are:

“That was the night I learned how not to pray
God does what God wants to anyway”

I love that song, but that is not how I feel.  I think bad things happen and God gives us the people and the things in our lives that we need at the time.  We just have to be open and willing to receive them.  I am not a religious person at all, but I do believe in something bigger than me. Call it God or call it nature or call it the universe, or maybe it is just the goodness and kindness of humankind.

June 24, 2013

The chemo fog is finally lifting.  It is amazing the difference I feel during the first five or six days after chemo.  I imagine it feels like taking your armor off after a long battle.

The first day after chemo is usually good.  Go back to the clinic to get the Neulasta injection, feeling a little tired but not bad. Go to work, have a decent day, thinking maybe it will be different this time.  Maybe the chemo will not hit me like it did last time. Feeling pretty confident.

Then the second day after chemo rolls around and ugh–not so lucky. Arms and legs feel like they are not attached to my body; I lay on the bed and I know my limbs are attached but I cannot feel them.  I think this must be what it feels like after a long battle, when you finally make it to safety and remove the metal armor.  I am sure after carrying that weight around all day your arms and legs must feel dead.

That is the way I feel.  I have made it to the safety of my own little world and I remove my armor.  The heart, soul, spirit, and brain are there, but the body is nowhere to be found. The shell–the armor–has been removed.  The world seems different after chemo.  The eyes see but the rest of the body is in a daze, the other senses not in touch with the world surrounding me.

As days three and four roll around, things get worse.  I just cannot get comfortable: I move from space to space–bed, futon, swing, even the floor. Just someplace to get some relief.  Walking from room to room gets harder; I’m out of breath, dizzy, needing to sit down, almost passing out. Cold, then hot and sweating–just looking for a little peace.   Moving the arms and legs get harder and harder. I need to take slow, deliberate steps, not stand up too fast–shaky, dizzy, it’s hard to breathe.

I have to be careful; just need to get through this chemo as healthy as possible. Just keep taking one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other. One day at a time, trudging.  The warrior fights even when it feels like there is no fight left.  Life is worth it–fight to stay alive.  Why?  I am not sure.  Just fight, because that is who I am.