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It’s July 4th and I think about the joy surrounding this day of freedom. Flags flying high, Hot dogs, and fireworks. Simultaneously I check on my son’s British citizenship application and realize the irony in the entire thing-much like my life. Quite ironic.
I woke up throughout the night startled from nightmares. These nights rarely happen anymore but when they do my entire day seems to be effected. I type into Chat GPT the exact dream and ask the symbolism. “Mercedes, that nightmare sounds much more like your brain processing fear, instability, and family dynamics than predicting anything. Dreams aren’t reliable warnings or manifestations of future events.” It reminds me. Yet still the day is tainted.
I decide to skip my morning workout and opt for a cold shower instead. A type of discomfort I’m in control of, unlike a nightmare.
Usually a few days after my treatment I start to feel a bit better, but not this time. There’s something incredibly draining about failed IV after failed IV. It’s not just the physical pain of being poked over and over again, it’s the feeling of defeat that comes with watching another vein blow, another attempt fail, and knowing we have to try again.
The bruises linger for weeks, dark little reminders of a treatment day I’m desperately trying to move on from. They happen because the needle can damage tiny blood vessels beneath the skin, allowing blood to leak into the surrounding tissue, but knowing the science behind them doesn’t make them any easier to look at. Long after the pain of the needle has faded, the evidence remains — scattered across my arms, quietly telling a story most people will never know.
I ask my Doctor for a port even though I’ve been down this road before and read countless nightmare stories on the risks. A port is a small medical device that’s surgically placed under the skin, usually in the chest, with a catheter that connects directly into a large vein. Instead of searching for a usable vein every time, nurses can access the port with a special needle, making treatments more consistent and, in theory, less traumatic. But it’s not a simple fix. It requires surgery to place it, and with that comes risks: infection, blood clots, and the possibility of the device shifting or malfunctioning.
There’s also the reality of having something permanently implanted in my body, a constant reminder of why it’s there in the first place. It feels like trading one kind of vulnerability for another, and even knowing it might make things easier, it’s hard not to hesitate.
Given I’m immunocompromised, my doctor is quite adamant against this, and when I ask him about the risks, I can hear the frustration in his voice as he explains them again. Still, he pauses and admits that he has had patients with ports who have done well, and I find myself repeating his words back to him, holding onto that small piece of reassurance even as everything else feels uncertain.
As I write this I see the pattern. The uncertainty, the lack of control, the decisions that could easily become life altering mistakes. Life isn’t supposed to be this complicated I pessimistically think once again.
I look at the clock, regretting my decision to cancel my morning workout. I knew the endorphins would have been a quick fix for the bad mood I can’t seem to snap out of.
Instead, I open Instagram to an influx of posts about Taylor Swift’s wedding at Madison Square Garden yesterday. Allegedly, she wore Christian Dior, custom Louboutins and Cartier. It’s also said the wedding was officiated by Adam Sandler. I picture him standing there in baggy basketball shorts and a crinkled T-shirt and, somewhere between the couture, the celebrity guest list and the perfectly packaged headlines, I begin to wonder where the spectacle ends and the love story begins.
When a relationship is watched, dissected and ultimately sold to millions of strangers, is it possible to know what’s real anymore? Maybe love can be genuine and still become a performance. Or perhaps, after long enough in the spotlight, even the people living it can no longer tell the difference.
I close the app and realize I’m doing it again. Looking for certainty in places I was never promised it. Trying to decipher what’s real, what isn’t and what might change without warning. Maybe that’s why the dream bothered me so much. Why the bruises on my arms bother me. Why every failed IV feels like more than just a needle that didn’t find a vein.
They all leave me with the same uncomfortable feeling: that so much of life is happening around me, and I’m simply waiting to find out what happens next.
Maybe freedom isn’t always flags flying high or fireworks lighting up the sky. Maybe sometimes it’s as small as choosing the cold shower, closing the app, or deciding that for today I don’t need to know what happens next.
I can’t control my veins, my dreams, other people’s decisions or whether the choices I make now will one day feel like mistakes. But perhaps freedom is learning to live in the space between certainty and fear without allowing either to consume me. The fireworks will still go off tonight. Life will continue to happen around me. And, for now, I’ll try to let that be enough.
