Status: status...we'll see how it goes
Dear, Gerard
Dear, Gerard
Dear Gerard,
The doctors say it's like autism. This disease I have. They can't explain it though. It's like a word nobody can pronounce or a sock nobody can find. The doctors pad around me like I'm too fragile. They choose their words with a close precision, careful not to frighten me, but they've already failed at that.
It's not that I'm scared anymore. I guess there's not much to be scared of. In the beginning, I think I was scared of letting go. Of letting go of you and the band and my friends and memories. Eventually, I overcame that, because this disease is worse than dying.
I start forgetting things slowly. Little things like car keys, people's names, my address. I guess it's been happening for a while too. Maybe even since I was a kid. Now that I think about it, that kind of makes sense. I like to think that's why I was stupid in school- because my brain would forget things- but really, I was probably just stupid.
The doctors say one of the first things to go will be my musical skills. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll forget how to play the bass. That's why I stopped coming to band practice, Gerard. I'm scared I'll show up there at the studio, and I'll pick up my bass, and we'll start playing. Bob will be at his drums, Ray will be doing some solo. You'll be singing, and Frank will be there too. And then, there will be me, crying.
It's not that I'm exactly sad. I'm not really depressed at all. It was almost funny actually. Right after I was diagnosed, my doctor signed me up for a bunch of copeing programs, and he even trued to perscribe me depression medication.
I left his office and threw the perscription away. I still haven't gone to a single one of those programs.
I think a lot of people confuse depression and regret. There's a big difference. Depression is incredible, overwhelming sadness. Regret is almost exactly the same thing, but nine out of ten times you can actually attempt to do something about it, but a lot of people don't.
I have a lot of regrets, Gerard. In the beginning, I tried to deny that- tell myself that I've lived a perfect life. The sad truth is that nobody's perfect. As much as we like to think we are, we all make mistakes. I think I started writing these as sort of a runaround way of saying I'm sorry.
I think if I write enough of these, I'll run out of things to say sorry for and then dying will be okay. But I don't think I will ever be okay with forgetting everything.
They're saying I have until the end of the year. Six months to be with my memory.
I remember one time, I read this article where these reporters took a poll and asked people if they would want to know their exact day of death. Ninety-eight percent of people asked said that they wouldn't want to know. I used to always think that I would want to be the two percent that would want to know. Then, I could spend my last few years getting ready, doing everything I have ever wanted, and then dying wouldn't be so bad.
Gerard, I want you to listen. After I'm gone, if you are ever giver a choice to know when you're going to die, even if it's untreatable cancer, don't take it.
This is cheesey, but live everyday like it's your last, because tomorrow, you could be diagnosed with early onset Alzheimers, like I was.
I guess I'm a hypocrite for saying that. There are so many things that I wish I could be doing. So many things that I have been given oppurtunities to do that I denied.
Alicia's in the next room. We don't talk much anymore, but that's okay. I'm not in love with her, and I know deep down that I never was.
She's pregnant with my baby, Gerard. She won't know for weeks, but I know it. I also know when she finds out, it won't be good news. Alicia could never be a good mother like Lyn-Z or Jamia and she could most certainly never do it alone.
So, if in the future, you're raising my child, never tell them that their father was a good man.
I'm sorry, Gerard. I'm so sorry.
All I ask is if, one day, my child asks what happened to their parents, please tell them that I died. I would hate to think that my child would know I ran away from my problems like a coward.
I guess I am in a way.
If I were brave, I would tell you this in person. I would tell you everything. From beginning to end. The whole sad story, but I don't think it would be that easy. It's never that easy, is it?
Simply telling somebody how I'm feeling isn't good enough. That's why I'm not in counseling. I can't describe what I'm feeling, Gerard, It's a mixture of regret, anxiety, hopelessness, a little sad, worry, and a lot of confusion.
I'm calling an end to this first letter, Gerard. It have been exactly one month since my diagnosis when they told me I have till Christmas. Truthfully, I have a calendar pinned up beside this desk and I'm counting down the days.
Usually when people are terminal, they travel the world, or go skydiving, or they really start living. It's been thirty days, and I'm still wondering when I'll wake up and start living.
-Mikey
The doctors say it's like autism. This disease I have. They can't explain it though. It's like a word nobody can pronounce or a sock nobody can find. The doctors pad around me like I'm too fragile. They choose their words with a close precision, careful not to frighten me, but they've already failed at that.
It's not that I'm scared anymore. I guess there's not much to be scared of. In the beginning, I think I was scared of letting go. Of letting go of you and the band and my friends and memories. Eventually, I overcame that, because this disease is worse than dying.
I start forgetting things slowly. Little things like car keys, people's names, my address. I guess it's been happening for a while too. Maybe even since I was a kid. Now that I think about it, that kind of makes sense. I like to think that's why I was stupid in school- because my brain would forget things- but really, I was probably just stupid.
The doctors say one of the first things to go will be my musical skills. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll forget how to play the bass. That's why I stopped coming to band practice, Gerard. I'm scared I'll show up there at the studio, and I'll pick up my bass, and we'll start playing. Bob will be at his drums, Ray will be doing some solo. You'll be singing, and Frank will be there too. And then, there will be me, crying.
It's not that I'm exactly sad. I'm not really depressed at all. It was almost funny actually. Right after I was diagnosed, my doctor signed me up for a bunch of copeing programs, and he even trued to perscribe me depression medication.
I left his office and threw the perscription away. I still haven't gone to a single one of those programs.
I think a lot of people confuse depression and regret. There's a big difference. Depression is incredible, overwhelming sadness. Regret is almost exactly the same thing, but nine out of ten times you can actually attempt to do something about it, but a lot of people don't.
I have a lot of regrets, Gerard. In the beginning, I tried to deny that- tell myself that I've lived a perfect life. The sad truth is that nobody's perfect. As much as we like to think we are, we all make mistakes. I think I started writing these as sort of a runaround way of saying I'm sorry.
I think if I write enough of these, I'll run out of things to say sorry for and then dying will be okay. But I don't think I will ever be okay with forgetting everything.
They're saying I have until the end of the year. Six months to be with my memory.
I remember one time, I read this article where these reporters took a poll and asked people if they would want to know their exact day of death. Ninety-eight percent of people asked said that they wouldn't want to know. I used to always think that I would want to be the two percent that would want to know. Then, I could spend my last few years getting ready, doing everything I have ever wanted, and then dying wouldn't be so bad.
Gerard, I want you to listen. After I'm gone, if you are ever giver a choice to know when you're going to die, even if it's untreatable cancer, don't take it.
This is cheesey, but live everyday like it's your last, because tomorrow, you could be diagnosed with early onset Alzheimers, like I was.
I guess I'm a hypocrite for saying that. There are so many things that I wish I could be doing. So many things that I have been given oppurtunities to do that I denied.
Alicia's in the next room. We don't talk much anymore, but that's okay. I'm not in love with her, and I know deep down that I never was.
She's pregnant with my baby, Gerard. She won't know for weeks, but I know it. I also know when she finds out, it won't be good news. Alicia could never be a good mother like Lyn-Z or Jamia and she could most certainly never do it alone.
So, if in the future, you're raising my child, never tell them that their father was a good man.
I'm sorry, Gerard. I'm so sorry.
All I ask is if, one day, my child asks what happened to their parents, please tell them that I died. I would hate to think that my child would know I ran away from my problems like a coward.
I guess I am in a way.
If I were brave, I would tell you this in person. I would tell you everything. From beginning to end. The whole sad story, but I don't think it would be that easy. It's never that easy, is it?
Simply telling somebody how I'm feeling isn't good enough. That's why I'm not in counseling. I can't describe what I'm feeling, Gerard, It's a mixture of regret, anxiety, hopelessness, a little sad, worry, and a lot of confusion.
I'm calling an end to this first letter, Gerard. It have been exactly one month since my diagnosis when they told me I have till Christmas. Truthfully, I have a calendar pinned up beside this desk and I'm counting down the days.
Usually when people are terminal, they travel the world, or go skydiving, or they really start living. It's been thirty days, and I'm still wondering when I'll wake up and start living.
-Mikey