Mojo and the Mess

No one tells you how expensive it is to stay alive.

Not just the hospital bills or the prescriptions — those you brace yourself for.

I’m talking about the everyday, invisible costs that come with trying to exist inside a body that keeps breaking your heart and your bank account at the same time.

Survival isn’t free. It’s work. It’s sacrifice. It’s a thousand quiet payments no one ever sees.

The Hidden Price Tags

They say life is priceless, but I can tell you the cost of mine.

It’s the Uber to treatment because I’m too sick to drive.

It’s the takeout because I can’t cook without sitting down halfway through.

It’s the new clothes because my body keeps changing shapes I never asked for.

It’s the hours Pete misses from work so he can sit beside me in waiting rooms that never seem to end.

It’s the extra gas, the parking fees, the endless “just one more test.”

There’s no line item for the dignity you lose when you trade your own clothes for a hospital gown.

No invoice for the energy it takes to keep smiling at nurses when you’re already spent.

No refund for the days that disappear between appointments.

The Emotional Cost

Doctors don’t chart this part.

They can track my labs, my scans, my numbers — but not what it takes to keep showing up.

They don’t see the exhaustion that money can’t fix.

The moments where I stare at the ceiling and wonder how much longer I can afford this version of “living.”

The guilt of knowing every treatment, every medication, every scan is both a lifeline and another line on the bill.

Cancer doesn’t just empty your wallet. It empties your patience, your plans, your sense of safety.

It makes you calculate your worth in receipts and statements.

When Survival Becomes a Job

There’s a strange kind of math that comes with illness.

You start to count your life in costs instead of days.

Each pill, each test, each drive becomes a transaction.

You learn to ration energy like money, to budget your pain, to live inside a system that charges you for the privilege of breathing.

Some days, I feel like I’m paying rent on my own heartbeat.

What It Really Means to Be Alive

Staying alive isn’t just about medicine — it’s about endurance.

It’s about holding on to yourself through every withdrawal: of money, of strength, of hope.

Some days, I can’t tell if I’m surviving or just financing my own existence.

But then Pete brings me a Diet Coke at sunrise because it’s the only thing that stays down.

Or Mojo curls up beside me and sighs like the world is safe again.

And I remember: this is what I’m paying for.

Not the bills. Not the charts.

The moments that remind me I’m still here.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

Hi, it’s me, Mojo.

I don’t understand money. I don’t know why Mom cries when the mail comes.

I just know she’s tired — not just body-tired, but soul-tired.

If love was currency, she’d be the richest person in the world.

But for some reason, love doesn’t pay hospital bills.

If it did, she’d never owe a thing.

💌 Subscriber Note

If you’ve made it this far — thank you for reading, for showing up, for being part of Mojo and the Mess.

This story isn’t just about cancer. It’s about what it costs to keep showing up for your own life, even when it’s hard.

For those who’ve asked what helps most, I’ve created a small Amazon Gift List — full of comfort items that make the bad days a little softer.

Every small gesture means more than I can ever say.

👉 Amazon Gift List – Mojo and the Mess

Thank you for reading, for sharing, and for reminding me that even when life feels expensive — love is still the best investment I’ve got. 💗