I Am, Indeed, A Quitter

Someone recently called me a quitter. At first, it made me angry because it was so obvious to me that he had no earthly idea the kind of fight I put up every single day. It's an interesting concept really... for most of us really don't intuitively know what each other goes through, so I am not sure how we arrive at such conclusions, but it happens quite often, I believe.

My immediate thoughts were as follows, in no particular order: Do you know how much effort is required to slap on a happy face every freakin' day regardless of what havoc is being wreaked in my body at any given moment? Do you think it's easy to try to go about my business, maintaining a sense of normalcy not only for myself but so that the small human beings who once dwelled in my belly can feel secure and know they have the world at their fingertips? Does wanting to be in control of my own destiny, be surrounded by the people I love and be in the places I want to be in make me a quitter? Does signing a DNR order mean I've thrown in the towel or is it perhaps a sign that I understand that in both living and dying, prior proper planning prevents piss poor performance? Is it so wrong to want to handle things on my own terms? And, perhaps, most telling, are you presuming that your way is the only way and therefore the right way?

However, upon further consideration, I must say, I concur. I am, indeed, a quitter... for today I do, in fact, declare that I quit. I quit putting effort into people who can't be bothered and who don't appreciate how fleeting time is. I quit taking medications that make me feel worse than the disease for which I am taking them, and I quit hanging my hopes on unkept promises and arbitrary statistics. You tell me there's a 94% chance that something bad will happen and I will look you in the eye and say there's a 6% chance it won't. You say quitter, I say fighter, but I do, indeed, quit fighting with you. So there. You were right. I am, indeed, a quitter.