The Curious Things That Excite You

A few days ago I thought I felt stubble on my legs. Not wanting to lapse into a coma of wishful thinking, I let it go....for probably 5 minutes before I felt again and wasn't so sure.
Well, today I could successfully run a stocking up my leg and cause snags. Not much of a cause for celebration amongst most women but for me it was worthy of shaking up a champagne bottle and spraying the pit crew.
Everyone says that your hair will grow back, and a few select morons suggest that it might grow back curly. (Why would I want it to grow back curly? I don't know what to do with curly. I just want my regular hair back), but there is always that irrational fear that it doesn't.
Well whoo the fucking hoo all over me because I have stubble baby !!!
I might mention a mole on my chin that used to sprout an occasional hair, and the fact that the occasional hair has become not so occasional......but that would make me seem decidedly unattractive,,,so I won't mention it. Show me a cancer survivor who wants to appear unattractive and I will show you a clown who wants to sit alone in the back seat of a stretch limo.
I am currently, and perhaps obsessively feeling for eyelashes and I think I actually detect a slight flurry of activity. I will check again in 5 minutes, but pit crew.....stand back, we could be going for a bucket of Gator Aid.

The Birthday Frog

So, today was my birthday. It did not begin with a bang (yes I am resorting to sexual double entendre), nor did it end with a whimper ( oops I did it again ), but it did start with a frog.
As I sat on a step in the backyard, a frog decided to come and sit beside me. It took him several attempts to scale the step but he was resolute that frog. He made it on the fourth attempt and after hanging by one little frog hand and causing me to wonder if I should give him a boost. Realizing that he might take my hand around his legs as a sure sign of imminent dismemberment....I left him to his own determination. Determined he was and, after finally securing his position next to me, he sat blinking at me with an intensity that made me wonder if I had a bug on my forehead that his laser-whip frog tongue would soon consume. But no, he apparently just felt sociable.

So, it was my birthday, and it was really just another day but hey.......a frog thought I was pretty damn approachable. Things are looking up.

Now What ?

So.......the joys of chemotherapy have come to an end. The input valve in my arm has been unceremoniously whipped out and my head is starting to sprout a degree of fuzz that feels like an asian crew cut. Yes, it is reason to celebrate ( I will dance alone to "Harlem" as soon as my legs promise not to buckle ) but the ugly, nagging question in this venue has to be, "What the hell am I going to complain about now?"
Soon my sense of taste will return and make note that I plan on eating my way through every epicurean delight available. So perhaps I can soon complain about being fat.
Soon it will be summer and while the little orange bikini is quite out of the question, perhaps I can complain about having no eyebrows to prevent sweat from trickling into my eyes.

Dating again ?  Well it is an infinite well of absurdity but who is going to want a fat girl with a blonde asian crew cut ?

Who knows ?   Something will come up......it always does.

The Roller Coaster Ride is Almost Over

I have documented chemotherapy in the most jocular light that might, in some disturbed circles be deemed as acceptable. Truth is.....there are some down sides. No....gasp.....really ??
Sure there is all kinds of physical crap, just don't ask me about my perpetually dry nose and my constantly watering eyes.....I mean, do they talk to each other ?? Don't ask me how smug I was over not losing my eyelashes.....until I tried to put on mascara and there they were.....gone.

The physical stuff is a pain in the ass. The emotional stuff rips you apart. The mood swings make you seem like a post office worker with mommy issues.

Some can handle it.....some can't. Add another "can't" to the list but let me now praise those who can.

Always guaranteed to put an Elvis smile on my face, always guaranteed to put me back on planet dumbass....just by being the lovable jerk that you are p.

Always a "good morning", always an inappropriate lustful thought, and even though you come and you go....there is always a lustful thought in return Herr S.

So sweet that you hurt my teeth. You stayed with me. Not a negotiable road, but you were always there g.

Did I mention that my eyes water uncontrollably ? It's just the sun. Even though it is 1 a:m. Chemo messes with your internal time clock........really !!!

The Sweetest Words You'll Ever Hear

"Essentially, your cured."

                 -Dr. Dixon, Oncologist
                  April 17, 2015

Chemo-Brain is Catching

A conversation held between me and my mother, Tues, April 7.


mom   -  There's a man coming to clean the furnace tomorrow
me      -   I saw the reminder. It says Wednesday.
mom  -   Yes, Wednesday.
me     -   You said tomorrow.
mom  -   Yes, tomorrow.
me     -    Isn't it Wednesday today ?
mom  -   No, tomorrow.
me     -   Then what day is it today ?
mom  -   Isn't it Tuesday ?
me     -   I don't know. Is it ?
mom  -  Yes, it is Tuesday today.
me     -  Are you sure ?
mom -   Yes, it is Tuesday.
me    -   So the furnace guy is coming tomorrow ?
mom -   Yes, tomorrow.

DOORBELL RINGS

mom -   That must be the guy to clean the furnace.

                                       

                                         o o
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Little Jen at LCBO

Not that I frequent my local LCBO all that much.....ok, yeah I do, but in my defense it's only wine and I do have a great joke about Domain D'or ( it's right dere).
It's a little LCBO and must admit that I do know the names of most of the employees. They don't know my name, but they sure as hell know my face. I guess it registered that, lately I have been wearing hats a lot and, knowing how much they gossip.....they will gladly identify every drunk in town.... there has clearly been speculation about my mortality.

Little cashier Jen.....mousy, gimpy, cross eyed Jen asked me today if I was ok. So...ok the store was empty and, given the well known side effect of chemo-babble.....I told little Jen in 2,000 words or less, that I was fine. Well didn't little Jen just grab my hand, look at me with a limpid, cross eyed gaze and tell me that she had been worried about me and was so glad to hear that I was ok.

Ever cry at LCBO ? And not because you screeched into the parking lot 2 minutes after they closed ?

It seems that the concern you get, at times, comes from people you barely know. It's sweet, but it's bittersweet. Cancer is lonely. It separates you. I guess people think you might be contagious.....dumbasses !!

Ok, if you threw me into a swimming pool I would likely rotate to the right in endless circles but I can still form rudimentary sentences, I can still choose the correct fork for salad and I can still dance like a stripper on quaaludes. But who would know ?

I fear becoming Miss Havisham......there are enough fucking cobwebs around me to substantiate that concern, but let's make it clear that there is no wedding dress involved....just a well worn pair of yoga pants and a sweater that accommodates the arm penis.

Yes, this was a rant. Come on dudes....I'm entitled. And I was at LCBO today.

Little Jen.....you will forever be employee of the month.

What They Don't Tell You

The pre-chemo information session is chock full of all the scary things that can happen to you.
You can get an infection and watch your skin bubble and peel.
You can projectile vomit in an upscale restaurant while wearing a scary wig.
You can lose the feeling in your feet and fall down the stairs causing said wig to fly off and land at your side like a dead cat.
You can completely lose your love of cheeseburgers.

What they don't tell you is that you can become bi-polar. They don't tell you that one minute you may be sobbing over how dumb you look in hats and the next minute you might be ordering Chinese food for 20 just in case the navy stops by.
They don't tell you that you might just yell at your slippers because they are on the wrong feet and they don't tell you may spend half an hour in the Wine Rack making the fat ladies laugh about your arm-penis ( cancer translation = Pic line ).

I think I will affect a mutiny in the pre-chemo information sessions.

"Dude, forget the vomit scare. You are going to have Tourrette's Syndrome for 6 months. Hire a lawyer."

Clubs

Yeah...I have been kicked out of a lot of clubs.

I think I was first kicked out of the girl club when I was a snotty little British child. I played with the boys. I didn't like the girls. They were judgmental and exclusionary even at such a young age.
I have been kicked out of the woman club many times. I still play with the boys.....but when you look very much like a woman, you become suspect of either being a lipstick lesbian or simply being a man-stealer. I mean, let's get real.....I never mowed my lawn in a bikini, but in the eyes of all the wives in my neighborhood... ..it could have happened on any given Saturday and all of the husbands would have invented reasons to inspect their grass. Yes, I know....guys love grass....and really!!!! I'm not that hot.

I have been, relatively speaking, kicked out of the woman club because I regularly spill "woman secrets". I will quite happily tell any man that women just don't know what they want. They really don't. We will trick you into thinking that we do but, in reality, unless the cabin boy races down the deck, climbs the rigging and rings the bell.....we really don't have a clue.

I have been kicked out of the dating club. You are either too needy or just not needy enough. You play it cool and they fuck off because you weren't interested. You play it hot and they fuck off because you are clearly just too much to handle. You walk the median...and once again, you might just be a lesbian.

I was kicked out of the mom club. Ok, it was Massachusetts, and in Massachusetts all women have the same haircut and wear Laura Ashley. They have advanced degrees but spend their down time trading recipes and decorating their homes in shades of cranberry and leaf green. I decorated my home with pink flamingos who had an outfit for every occasion. I could have got away with it if I looked like a Kennedy. My teeth aren't that big.

They will soon kick me out of the cancer club. I just don't take it seriously enough and this blog is ample proof. Dude, I ain't never going to raise my hand and label myself as a "survivor". I had it. I did the chemo time.....I may have actually drooled a few times in my3 day stupor, but in the end, I just put on a dumb hat, head for LCBO, and tell dumbass Dieter that I still don't need a bag.

One club I will never be kicked out of is a biker club. Bikers have always loved me. I went to my senior prom with a biker. I think they see me as someone in need of their protection. I have always been blonde and innocent looking. I've always had a biker in my back pocket......don't get me started on cops. 

The Things You Realize

I have elf ears. They are not so pointy as to find the north star....but if Peter Jackson passed me on the street....I would have a lifetime contract in Hobbit movies.

I have a perfectly shaped head. Cut it off and drill 5 holes in it....you could easily bowl a strike.

Sometimes you have to let go. You may have once found the perfect guy.....but hey, if he doesn't realize that you were just as perfect after 6 months, then he is just plainly as bright as a small appliance bulb and will burn out just as fast.

Sometimes you have to embrace the completely imperfect guy. You inhabit a very small space in his life, and yet he tells you every day that you are beautiful....even when you know that you are not. He tells you every day that you are desirable....he tells you that the scars don't matter and you believe him. You believe him because you need to.

Sometimes....most times you will hold on to that which makes you smile. It may be temporary....but while it lasts it is golden.

Sometimes we just take what we get, accept that we are nuts, and drive our car into oncoming traffic regardless of the perils.

Where Everybody knows Your Name

You can always spot the newbies in the cancer center. When you are first diagnosed they give you a blue bag. It's the cancer bag and it is filled with all manner of helpful pamphlets about the 852 potential chemo side effects and how to approach intimacy. It may be a long shot,,,,,,but damn my legs are smooth !!
Anyway, the newbies all bring their blue bag to subsequent appointments. You see them wandering around in a daze, clutching their blue bag as though it contains state secrets and a few uncut diamonds from Antwerp.
Us pros, we don't carry the blue bag. We don't need them as a name tag. We are there in our dumb hats.....what more proof of membership do you need ?

It does seem however, that everyone seems to know my name. I have been banished to the far corner of the chemo lounge (yes they call it a lounge.....no karaoke, no mai tais). It seems that I am a troublemaker. I make the nurses giggle. It is a very serene environment you see....lots of knitting and whispering. Well even the unfamiliar nurses call my in by my first name only now. They all seem to know who I am and I see the silent looks of "put her in the corner" pass between them. A few of them have already adopted my name of "The Acme Coyote Killer" for the giant chemo needles they try to intimidate you with.

I am Norm apparently. They just say "Olwyn !!". But they don't give me a beer.

Notes on Nurses

You have to love nurses. They have seen it all. They have done things that you wouldn't do after 12 Kamikazes and a bong.
They know what you are talking about when you refer to your drainage tubes as testicles and your PIC line as an arm penis. They love tape !!! They probably know more dirty jokes than Andrew Dice Clay and could take down a charging rhino with hemostats and a roll of gauze.
I don't want to know what they do at home with hemostats and a roll of gauze but you can rest assured they will have a good time doing it.

After the birth of my first child I heard 2 nurses in the hallway outside my room loudly comparing the size of their respective patients' hemorrhoids. I fondly remember the patient in the next room who took home a new baby and "a bunch of grapes".

You have to love them......and I do !

and hey.....serious cred to me for spelling hemorrhoids right on the first try !!

Let's Look on the Bright Side.....or maybe The Far Side

You know what's great about having cancer? Well I will tell you what.

 You get free stuff !!!  That's why we wear bandanas.You get more bandanas....free. You get your wig trimmed, free. You get creepy fake boobs that feel like a very large testicle.....free !! Last week I got a box filled with $500 of free make up just for attending a seminar on how to wear it without looking like a drag queen.

You can almost behave any way you want to and people will excuse it because you have cancer. Bursting into tears when you find a potato chip that looks like jesus, swearing like a Tourettes victim at the toaster who swallowed my bagel.....all perfectly acceptable.

Not so acceptable however is to joke with the chemo nurses about FU5 as they inject it into your arm. Chemo nurses don't have an obvious sense of humour. FU5 is a component of chemo....sure, fairly serious stuff, but come on.....it really does lead to a pretty obvious segue.

Did you know there is a sushi restaurant downtown Toronto called Fuk Yu ? In the town where my brother resides, in Thailand, there is a sushi restaurant called Fuk Yu 2.
I spot a trend.
Coming soon to Tennessee......Fuk Yall, and to Newark NJ.....Fuk Yuz.

A Postscrit on Chemo Brain

It just dawned on me....it's a bit like being stoned. Scratch that....it's a LOT like being stoned !!
If I still smoked I would be doing that thing that stoned people do; lighting a cigarette, putting it in the ashtray and then lighting another one. If Jeff and Larry were still my gaybours they would be surreptitiously putting all of the un-smoked cigarettes in their shirt pockets with a "nothing going on here" look on their faces.
I probably have that slack jawed expression that only stoned people have until they are suddenly, and very expressively struck with the understanding of why bats always turn left when they fly out of a cave.

It's really not all that bad. I don't need to panic if I run out of rolling papers and go searching for a carrot and a ball point pen, AND.......I can do it all without the eventual need to toast an entire loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.

A Few Notes About Chemo-Brain

I still wrestle with the notion of allowing this blog to lapse precariously close to a flag waving, chest pounding declaration of being a cancer survivor. The survivor label perhaps being presumptuous at this point, but I can at least see it looming.
I'm sure there are hoards of cancer blogs that will be far more clinical, maudlin, celebratory or "Kumbaya" laden than mine and, since I will never wear a pink ribbon or stick one on my bumper....since I will never leave my house sporting a bandana, and since I happened to find a wig that makes me look like Tina Turner in whiteface.....be aware that
you won't find any "Come Together" postings here. I have the right to poke fun at people with funny names, because I have one. I have the right to castigate Brits because I am one. I am likewise assuming the right to poke fun at cancer because.....I have chemo-brain.

My daughter and I recently watched the movie "Flight". I had avoided it upon initial release since I enough of an airplane wienie already and did not wish to condemn myself to never again leaving the province of Ontario. We can discard the entire premise of the movie because all I would like to segue into is one of the funniest throwaway movie scenes I have seen in some time. Denzel and a young overdose victim are surreptitiously sneaking a smoke in a hospital stairwell when a young man appears clad in a hospital gown, dragging an IV pole and seeking asylum from the cancer ward. He launches into a  babbling, non-linear and completely hilarious diatribe about having cancer which is probably only funny if you actually have cancer.....or maybe not.
The young man asks Denzel for a cigarette and, after being given a whole pack, he promises to hand them out in the cancer ward.
Now I thought that was funny. I thought it was hilarious, but I'm sure it wouldn't go down well at the Susan B Komen foundation.
As the young man departs, Denzel and his companion discuss the degree to which he has "chemo-brain". It is a very real affliction, you see, and while I consider myself a very literate person, there are certain things that I can just no longer do.

I cannot pronounce the word "auxiliary". In normal times this would not be of much concern but when there is a hospital auxiliary to which I would like to give credit....it becomes somewhat more critical. I get as far as "aux" and my mouth stops working. I can hear it in my head. I just can't say it. I haven't been shot in the head and I haven't suffered a stroke but damn it.....I can't say "auxiliary" !!!
I cannot pronounce the word "anesthesiologist". Same explanation as above.
So far the words I can't pronounce seem to begin with A. I am in dire straights if this verbal paralysis lapses into B words because they are amongst my favorites.
In case you have missed this phenomenon....many rude, offensive and downright dirty words begin with the letter B. Case in point; bum, bugger, boobs, bollocks, balls, bastards, boner, banging, blow job.........but I digress.
I can no longer play Bookworm. Now you have to understand, I was the queen of Bookworm. I could view a screen of random letters and instantly form such awe inducing words as "botulism" and "ineptitude" casing Lex the worm to spew a stream of bonus points that threatened to blow up my laptop. I rejoice now in forming such combinations as "the" and "four". My ranking has dropped miserably.
My daughter recently tried to reach me "Candy Crush". I felt like a 1 year old learning how to sort blocks. Unable to grasp the concept I was left with pointing out that one of the shapes resembled Worther's Originals....a sad but nontheless accepted victory.
I am reduced to doing the NYT crossword puzzle in pencil. I bemoan this crushing blow. Doing it in pen was a badge of intelligent adulthood that I wore with gloating pride. How the mighty have fallen.

Now don't be too alarmed. I can still dress myself without looking like I am auditioning for Clown College. I can still make a cootie catcher and I can still read a book without mouthing the words or using a ruler. All is not lost. I may drool a little more in my sleep, but I can probably still pull off a Michigan left without causing a 6 car pile up. The feeling of accomplishment however might reduce me to tears of joy......but that is another posting.

Bras, wigs and other assorted icky things

So, I am grappling with an issue here. For reasons that will become clear, I am no longer an active online dating nazi, but I do feel the occasional need to vent. My reasons for venting are just very different.
Do I turn this into a "Hi.....I have cancer" blog or do I just post immune system boosting recipes and pictures of cool hats? My daughter and I have both agreed that I will not do the bandana thing when I lose my hair. It is a bit too much like walking around with a pink ribbon sandwich board. I mean....let's get real, you see a woman with a bandana and you just think, "Oh.....poor thing".
I have never had a lot of hair. Being naturally blonde I have lived through the ridicule of having a pony tail that can be threaded through a needle and I have likely spent millions on volume enhancing products, but when faced with baldness, I cling to what little hair I have and wonder if there can possibly be a wig out there that won't make me look like Chemo Barbie.
A less self-indulgent issue is the way that people treat you when they know that you are a walking question mark. Trust me, sneezing in public has a much more immediate effect but people go running for vastly different reasons. You might want to talk to them about how often you barf. You might want them to tell you that the wig makes you look like Eva Gabor. You might wear a bandana.
But.....some people rise. Some people think that you are no different, and some very special people tell you that that you are still beautiful.

Simply put......you learn to cherish the simplest of things.

Well.....I guess I just turned this into a "Hi....I have cancer" blog. Maybe my next post will detail how I made my own mastectomy bra. It really was quite brilliant.