Writing in bed. With coffee and a little white cat next to me. Jealous right? You wish you had my job. I know. It’s pretty badass. Don’t worry, in no time, chemo and radiation will be kicking my ass and the extent of the blog will be…Fuck this Day.
In the meantime, I accept your jealousy and revel in it.
Dates and times finally come through. The chemical war is slated to begin in the morning hours this Tuesday. Radiation is up first followed by a three-hour chemo whooping. Chemo’s going to give it her best shot. I’ll let you know on Wednesday who wins round one.
Sweet Susie, in charge of prep, says nausea and fatigue are the big ones. Not a great barfer so I could do without that as a constant. She says they’ll pump me full of anti nausea drugs, plus two prescriptions. This bitch Chemo must pack a powerful nausea punch.
I can’t say I’m ready. Who’s ready for something they have never experienced? I’m ready for it to be over. I’m ready for it to join all the bad shit in my rear view mirror. I’m ready for it to be fodder for a new book. I’m ready to be well. I’m ready to help others and I’m ready to stand on a beach, wind blowing through my hair yelling a hearty, “Fuck You Cancer,” not just for myself but for all who blazed this trail along with those whose footsteps only made it so far.
My dolls have me girded and forearmed. Sweet niece brings Emu Oil, which is all the rage in Hollywood. Research shows its amazeballs for burns, as in radiation fun. Dearest River Rafter Girl knocks on the door yesterday with a humidifier, which research proves helps with mouth sores, another parting gift. I revved it up last night. Profoundest thanks my dolls.
Mama Mar keeps me in notebooks as ideas come in the middle of the night. She’s not only a nurse, but also the best mom on the planet. If she could be my real life mom, I would fear nothing. She could kick cancer’s ass with her disapproval face. Lucky are her three girls. And Bean, knowing the proclivity for middle of the night ideas, brings over a light bulb, a giant blue light bulb, that lights up. It rests in the bed; so life-altering thoughts at 3 a.m. have some light. You guys are too much.
New Cancer Friend sends over lotions, potions, tips and advice. She is further down the cancer coaster. She is also talented in the f-bomb department and says, “If you’re offended by cuss words we can’t be friends.” To that I say, “Wanna come over for a playdate?” She proves not only a source of info but an inspiration. Her fuck cancer is big and loud and robust. Go girl.
Dr. H says I won’t turn bitchy until the third or fourth week—he wants to see me then. He says the worry is the throat can close during radiation, thus the necessity for Gus the Asshole Feeding Tube. It can cause permanent damage so it is important to keep eating food no matter how difficult. I know what would help—add a wine tasting to my regimen. That will keep my throat open! Not so much. We do discuss the merits of a certain other drug many recommend.
Pain and me? Not pals. You want to give me a brownie with magic powers I’ll take it. Can I wash it down with a French Pinot Noir? I know, sounds delish right?
Anybody care to join me?