One Survivor

One Life, One Love

It’s been a while since I last updated this blog. Life, as always, has had other plans. I’ve been juggling part-time work and writing essays for Medium.com, while also supporting close family members who are facing severe health crises. My mother-in-law is in the hospital, nearing the end of her life, and my brother-in-law’s recent brain cancer surgery has left him with a grim prognosis.

To top it off, I’ve just completed yet another move—my third in four years. I’m exhausted from the constant packing and uprooting. Still, I remind myself that as hard as things are, they could be far worse. I could be a refugee in Gaza, wandering through devastation with nothing but the clothes on my back. Perspective doesn’t erase pain, but it helps temper it.

Today, as I write this, the news is dominated by the Air India plane crash in Kerala, which killed over 240 people. Only one person survived. In the face of such devastation, I find myself questioning the randomness of life. As someone born and raised in Canada, a relatively safe and privileged country, I often wrestle with thoughts like: Why me? Or… why not me?

If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you’ll know I don’t believe in the comforting notion that “everything happens for a reason.” Life, in my view, is far more arbitrary than we’d like to admit. We’re all like lottery balls tumbling in a spinning cage—some get drawn into tragedy, others into triumph, and most of us land somewhere in between.

I wonder what that lone survivor of the crash must be thinking. Why did I live when so many others died? Perhaps he believes divine intervention spared him. But belief doesn’t change the reality that the universe is indifferent to our plans. Life is chaotic, unfair, and often without explanation. Occasionally, it throws us a coincidence or a moment of grace, but there’s no grand design to who thrives and who suffers. If you’re healthy, living in a stable society, and have access to basic resources, you’re already more fortunate than most of the world. That one survivor in India? He’s alive by pure chance—whatever luck truly means.

A new health problem...sigh

On a more personal note, I recently had a minor health scare. My legs, ankles, and feet suddenly became swollen. I called Québec’s 811 health line and was sent to a walk-in clinic the next day. Bloodwork was done to rule out heart failure, kidney dysfunction, and venous insufficiency. I was prescribed a diuretic, and the swelling subsided almost immediately, suggesting a cardiovascular or renal issue. Not exactly comforting.

As I filed away the new test results, I paused and took in the mountain of paperwork documenting my health journey. Over the past 30 years, I’ve undergone more than 150 diagnostic tests—bloodwork, MRIs, CT scans, and X-rays. And that doesn’t include the early years when I didn’t keep records. Below are the records I have kept:

I’ve also seen nearly 50 different doctors. Some people go their whole lives with a single family physician. Me? I’ve spent mine rotating through a carousel of specialists, clinics, and hospital corridors.

What if we all lived that way?

Sometimes I catch myself reflecting on the fact that we don’t get a do-over. This is it—our one life. Whether it lasts a single day or stretches out to 120 years, it’s all we’ve got. Most of us, aside from the truly unwell or malicious, want to make that one life meaningful. I had a relatively uncomplicated start to adulthood, barring a problematic case of psoriasis. But from age 22 onward, life has been a relentless series of health battles, forcing me to give up activities I once loved and reshaping my entire identity.

I began writing this blog in 2019, when it became clear that my health story was far from typical. I thought I was alone in the intensity and scope of my medical journey—until I befriended a woman who, while she hadn’t undergone the same orthopedic surgeries as I had, was living with metastatic breast cancer. Despite chemotherapy, she also manages severe autoimmune conditions: psoriasis, psoriatic arthritis, ankylosing spondylitis, osteoarthritis, and all the infections and complications that come with immunosuppressive treatment.

Her list of surgeries is staggering: 19 in total. She’s had a leaking breast implant replaced, a benign tumour the size of a football removed, countless dental procedures, and still faces a terminal diagnosis. The last time we spoke, she told me her cancer had progressed to Stage 4. Her courage is humbling. Her life—like mine—has been dictated by medical appointments, side effects, and resilience.

(UPDATE September 2025 - My friend passed away. She was in her mid-forties. Never married. No children. Truly a tragic story.

And so, I return to the plane crash survivor. How will he process the trauma of surviving when hundreds did not? Will he find a renewed purpose? Make a vow to seize life more fully? Survivor’s guilt is real. But sometimes, that guilt can transform into a powerful catalyst—a drive to make life matter.

What if we all lived that way? What if we carried the awareness that this could be our last day, and acted accordingly—not in fear, but in presence? Of course, not everyone has that freedom. Some people are simply not dealt a fair hand. The idea that we can all “live our best lives” is often a luxury reserved for the healthy, the safe, and the privileged.

Still, for those of us who do have that luxury—however compromised, however fleeting—it’s worth trying. We owe it to ourselves, and maybe to those who didn’t get the chance.

I'll leave you today with Blondie's "Dreaming." Dreaming is free, dreaming is free...

Written by Patrick Franc - Your Friendly Neighbourhood Bionicman