what is the feeling when you are standing in a void space unable to look forward or back?

It is entirely annoying when I can't find my journal--my real journal.  The one I can hold in my hands and write with my own hand.  I don't write in it often--most of my thoughts are sane enough that they can exist in cyberspace.  When I do need to write in it though, it is usually an urgent need that needs to be quenched.  I tore apart my room like an alcoholic looking for a drink (no, I am not drunk).  I can't find it, and due to some strange obsession with having to write all entries in the same journal (often in the same ink), I cannot write this down anywhere else.  So.  Here I am.

Let's just say that I am constantly searching for my mother in movies and books.  When a mother character is particularly close to my own, or what I remember her to be (it sucks that I don't remember), I get sad.  Saw a movie tonight and I got sad and I miss my mom.  And then I realized that every day when I do something right--when I actually do my reading, when I make it to the gym, when I feel good enough to write--I am moving one step at a time away from that frail (skinny), broken (beautifully) boy I used to be.  I don't want to move on.  I just want to go back into her arms in the rocking chair where she would cradle me until I fell asleep.  I still remember one night when she took me to the chair--it was dark, there was one lamp, and the room looked like a yellow cloud--and sometimes, at night, when the world is asleep and I am restless (like tonight), I just want to go back and fall asleep on her shoulder.  Mothers shouldn't die.  Seventeen year olds shouldn't have to move on.  There is too much growing up left to do.  I am like that tree that grows up in a drought whose rings are all skinny and close together.

cancer of the forearm

I am not good with doctors.  I am not good with the whole "diagnosing" process.  I don't have great experience with that in the past.

About seven months ago I went to the doctor in Jacksonville for a bump on my arm.  I had researched the bump online and didn't think it was anything to worry about until it started causing pain.  Turns out the bump was/is an abscess and the pain in my arm was a pulled muscle from lifting weights.  I felt rather stupid.

The doctor did inform me that if it started changing color or shape that I should come back and get it looked at a little closer.  About a month after this visit, the bump started morphing, not only in color and shape but also in size.  Since then it has gotten bigger, smaller, changed from red to pink to flesh tone to white-ish and I haven't gone back.  

I haven't gone back because I am convinced that I have cancer; who wants to go through that diagnosis?  Not me.  No thank you ma'am.

I am going back tomorrow because the bump is back to--or rather actually--causing pain.  I am pretty sure this isn't a pulled muscle.  There is a sort of dull ache around the center of the bump and then radiating pain that I feel mostly in my fingers as sharp pricks.  I am pretty sure I have cancer of the forearm and I am going back to the doctor.

As of this moment I have about eleven hours remaining where I am cognitively cancer free and I plan on using that time to plan my funeral.

There will be free elephant rides as well as rainbow parasols with Victorian lace trim.

You aren't invited.