Limbodacious

Memorial Day

To the 445th Airlift Wing. 

I'm sorry I'm not there with you.  I miss you, and I hope you are safe.

-Me

To Do: Keep On Keepin' On

Today, like every day, I woke up and turned the page on my day planner, now merely a nostalgic remnant of my formerly super-busy, workaholic, anal-retentive self.  And there it was, clearly and deliberately penned in blue ink on today's date:  a triangle.  This puzzled me, as I have never used triangles as a part of my compulsively organized planning system.

I searched the depths of my memory, trying to recall unpaid bills, appointments, or obligations.  But I couldn't come up with so much as a light bulb that needed changed.  I tried to look back to a corresponding mark on any other date, looking for a pattern to unlock the secret of this strange hieroglyph.

And then it occurred to me.  I totally forgot to die today.

Six months ago, I was told I had six months to live.  And a few days later, he told me there was nothing more he could do for me, that I should go home and just let the cancer take me.  I thought I had completely obliterated any evidence of that knowledge, told no one, but the truth was in the day planner.

And it stared at me, floating off the page, wearing a big yellow t-shirt emblazoned with the message, "Hey!  You should come to terms with me!"  But I just stared back, devoid of emotion or comprehension.  I just didn't know what to feel or think.

Part of me wanted to send Dr. Negative an in-your-FACE card, while part of me wanted to run the shower, lay down on the bathroom floor, and sob.  But instead, I just closed the book and put it back in my vanity drawer.  And stared some more.

Why, why, would I have written that down on my calendar?  Surely I didn't think this doctor could accurately predict the day and time of my passing, so I must have put it there for myself to see six months later.  Maybe I thought I would have a hearty laugh at that disbeliever.  Maybe I planned to go to his office to show him how very much alive I was, and how very wrong he had been. 

But now, fresh from learning my cancer has spread once again, preparing to take a drug that would make Isaac Asimov shudder, contemplating the impending failure of my kidneys*, spending my days holed up by the toilet with the most violent cramps womankind has ever known... I feel so very untriumphant, so little like the Conqueror of Probability.

But... there is something to be said for the fact that I am still here.  For so long I have punished my body in the cruelest of ways, but I have not said uncle.  I may not be brave, but I am surely one stubborn mother.  Many may consider me a lost cause, a hopeless fancy, a fool for continuing.  They have refused me treatment, taken away my resources, drained the last bits of my energy.  They have looked upon me as a shattered shell, a defective product, and they have said that I should just save everyone the trouble and give up.

I may be the worse for wear, but even on the most horrible of days, I am still here.  And God as my witness, you will have to pry the chemo IV from my cold, dead veins. 

Write that down, asshole.

* Yes, I realize I am very unceremoniously dropping a bomb here.  Sorry about that.

And One More Thing, Dammit!

On my antibiotics it says, "DO NOT consume alcohol while taking this medication.  May cause projectile vomiting."

SO WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME COUGH SYRUP HAS ALCOHOL IN IT??

Denouements, Boringness, and Other Random Bits of Potpourri

Have you noticed how distinctly absent I have been lately?  Yes, I have been posting, but let's be honest, I've been bringing my B-game.  I have plans to rectify that in the near future.  But not quite yet.

Issue 1: I can see clearly now my meds are right.

I have corrected some dosage issues with my oxy, and I am feeling much more present in my own life.  I think I am almost through the adjustment phase.

Issue 2: You know what I really miss?  Cramps.

I have an infection in my cervix which is making me cranky.  Apparently the only thing my "reproductive" organs are good at is attracting bad things to them.  I am writing a few related posts in my head about how this made me think about death, and why I love Planned Parenthood.  Did I mention antibiotics suck?

Issue 3: Stop her before she obsesses again!

Househunting has completely consumed me.  (It has recently come to my attention that my househunting is much different than your househunting.  Look forward to the City Slicker's Guide to Small-Town Real Estate!)  It is time that I divulge some personal information.  I am the pickiest motherfucker you will ever meet.  With men, with food, and I have now realized, with houses.

I am going to take a small break from looking at houses because it is not only driving me insane, but it has also put Boyfriend and I on the brink of a Very Messy Breakup.  If we don't stop now, one of us will be dead before Monday.

Issue 4: Law & Order, Trial by Submission.

Remember my asshole friends?  I did not confront them, but surprisingly, they admitted of their own volition that they are assholes, though not quite in those words.  They even bought flowers.  Lilacs, people.  Crisis resolved.

Issue 5: Oh yeah, that's why I broke up with you.

Spring is in the air, and in my world, that means ex-boyfriends coming out of the woodwork trying to get back together.  Every fucking year.  Not that I am some awesome, hotly sought after person, but in my past I have dated some LQIs (Low Quality Individuals) who are used to dating girls named Jazzminne with four kids by four fathers.  So by comparison, I am like the Holy Grail of the Slim Pickings.  Irritating.

Issue 6: B-Itchin'.

The Great Scabies Plague upon our home has been lifted.  The rashes have healed, but the scars will always remain.

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I promise I will be writing about more interesting topics soon.  Just need some time to unwind and heal. 

This Post Brought to You by Oxycontin

Today I have a very important obligation.  Very important.

I get up early.  I shower immediately.  I dress in my finest attire. 

I go to my car and drive.  I drive for what seems like forever.  But this very important obligation is also very far away.  Finally, I reach my destination and exit the vehicle.

I am at my old high school.  5 minutes from my house.  And 45 minutes from where my presence is very much required.  I don't know why I am here.  In fact, I can't remember why I ever left the house in the first place.

Boyfriend calls me, frantic, asking me why I'm not at the mortgage office.  Oh yeah, mortgage application.  I should have gone there instead.

Since I am too far away to ever make it to the appointment, I go home.  The dog is out on the balcony looking very sad indeed.  I let him in.  He has been out there since last night, when I let him out to do his business.

I am very upset by the whole incident and decide to give myself a makeover.  I buy hair dye and some new bladeless hair-removing technique thingy that I saw on television from the drug store.

I decide to practice economy in motion by putting on the hair dye, and using the depilatory while the color develops.  The burning starts on my head first.  Followed shortly by my legs, then my hands.

I run the shower and get in fully clothed.  I check my Doxil information sheet, and I am not supposed to use depilatories or hair dyes for another two weeks.  I think I knew that at some point.

I ditch the entire effort and sit down to watch television.  Wait, how did I get wet?

I call the doctor to see about cutting my dosage in half.  They are closed. 

It is important that I remember to call him tomorrow.  Very important.

In Which I Am Interviewed

1.  If you could have riches for the rest of your life, but had to give up your literacy to do so, would you? Why or why not?

Hmmm, well I guess I could say that I would, and then I would use an infinitesimal amount of the money to pay for literacy classes, but I don't think that would be in keeping with the spirit of the question.  So I will say no, because nobody likes a rich dummy.

2.  Describe one time you did something mean and enjoyed it.

Very recently in fact!  My evil downstairs neighbor complained to some of our other neighbors that our dogs are too loud (she had a petition, for chrissake!).  So I spent the evening hammering, vacuuming, and generally stomping around.  I really enjoyed it.

3.  If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Well, I am going to give the totally boring humdrum answer of where I live now.  Sure, I would love to go to all these exotic beautiful places, but to live?  Not so much.  Maybe if I could transplant everyone I know as well, I would pick Hawaii.

4.  Name one thing in your life you wouldn't give up no matter what the reward or consequence might be. Explain why.

Tricky question, Louise!  My independence, or more appropriately, my privacy.  Many a relationship has fallen apart because of my fiercely private nature, but I will not budge.  It is not that I am hiding some particular atrocity, but I just need my space, my time, my secrets.  People say I emotionally compartmentalize my life.  They are right, and if they don't like it, they can kiss my ass.

5.  You have 24 hours to be completely invisible and undetectable to everyone around you. What do you do?

First, I would follow Boyfriend around to make sure he's not cheating.  I don't suspect him of this, but you can never be too sure, and if I'm invisible, might as well.  Then I would sit in a non-smoking restaurant and blow smoke into people's faces (and sneak bites of their desserts).  The afternoon would be spent changing channels on people's radios and televisions, because that would so never get old.  I would watch a free movie at the expensive theater, and round the night out by sleeping naked on the White House lawn.

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Oh the Humanity!

War, hunger, and now this.

Don't worry, I was not affected by the tragedy, but I know many who were.  Keep them in your prayers.

A Hard One to Swallow

Cancer is painful.  Okay, I know that statement could qualify for the "101 Most Obvious Things Ever Said" list, but sometimes things like that need to be said out loud, even if it is "understood".  As much emotional and financial strife as cancer causes, it is at its core a physical problem. 

I think I have a high pain tolerance.  I say "I think" because I don't pretend to know what others consider painful.  But I wasn't bothered by the tattoo process, and when I broke my ankle many years ago, I finished running the last half-mile of the course anyway.  I try not to complain about the pain I have from cancer treatments, as I am mindful that I need them to save my life. 

But I won't lie, I have a lot of pain every day.  This has been especially true since my stem cell transplant, which broke my body in ways that I will probably never recover from.  I have arthritis in most of my joints, residual shingles pain, back pain (the likes of which I have never experienced), headaches, cramps, residual pain from multiple surgeries, general achiness from fatigue, and thanks to my last ER visit, a broken arm and a seriously fucked up pelvic ligament (tendon?  what's the difference anyhow?).  I am listing all of these to make a point. 

The point is, despite all of that, I haven't taken anything stronger than Tylenol-2 (very sparingly) in over a year.  If you ask me to explain why, I guess I can't really.  I can admit it is totally irrational.  I have some deep-rooted drug-phobia that makes living in pain look like the more appealing option.

Yes, it is true that my family has a very extensive history of drug abuse and addiction, and yes, that is the original reason that I decided not to drink or use drugs.  But really, that isn't why I have resisted using painkillers through this process.  It is all about control.  See, here is a sample list of my really defining characteristics:

1.  Tireless hard worker Non-contributing parasite on society

2.  Surprisingly strong and very athletic Fragile and sickly

3.  Cute and confident Shattered self-image

4.  Smart and good at math Chemo-brained and forgetful

5.  Personal zero tolerance policy with regard to drugs/alcohol

I think I clung to this principle for so long because I felt it connected me to my former self.  It was the last remnant of my pre-cancer days.  And the more people thought it was crazy, the more it made me unique and memorable.  Sad, pathetic, but true. 

Obviously you can see why I am writing all this.  I just couldn't take it anymore.  I started to have menstrual-ish cramps and I forgot how unbearably painful they are.  The cramps were the straw that broke this camel's back, it was too overwhelming.  I thought to myself, if I can't stand up, things have got to change. 

So, after much deliberating and agonizing, yesterday I filled my "just-in-case" prescription for oxycontin*, which I had been hiding in my underwear drawer for months.  This morning I woke up and stared at the bottle.  I knew I needed it, but I imagined myself choking on the pill, or getting nauseated by it.  I talked myself out of it four or five times before the cramps hit again, and I had no choice.  I swallowed the pill.  I laid on the floor crying for a while, then I fell asleep right there for the next six hours. 

It was truly one of the lowest points in my entire life.  I know that probably no one reading this can understand why it was so difficult for me.  I hardly understand it myself.  But today I feel a huge sense of loss, I am disappointed in myself.  (And of course, I will not even start on the nagging thought that those are the drugs they give you when you're dying and the lengthy digression sure to ensue.)  The pain is gone, but I can't be happy about that yet. 

I know that I am taking it for a legitimate reason, that there is no shame in taking it when you really need it, and that the chance of me (with my willpower and awareness) getting addicted is negligible.  I know there is no reason for me to live in pain if I don't have to.  But today I mourned, I laid to rest the last pieces of my former self, I wept at the death of my heartfelt principles and ideals. 

Cause of death: Circumstance.

* For those of you familiar with these kinds of drugs, asking "Why go straight to oxycontin?"  Dr. Awesome explained to me that the pain kind of builds on itself, and by this point I have let it get so bad I need something very strong.  If I had started earlier (like during my SCT before things got so bad) I wouldn't have needed the big guns to get it under control.  Hopefully will step it back in the near future.  Ironic (I think? Louise, help?), that in trying to avoid addictive drugs I got to the point where I need the MOST addictive of all!

All Creatures Great and Small (Are Having a Very Bad Day)

It is raining today.  Really raining. 

I went out on the balcony to have a soggy smoke break.  In the lake behind my apartment, the fish were freaking out and trying to jump out of the water.  Their little two-dimensional, man-made world was being assaulted and literally turned upside-down by some external force they didn't understand. 

The metaphor was obvious, and I felt sad for them.  I wish I could explain to them what rain is, that it always ends, that trying to escape the water is suicide.  But when you're in the pond, the pond is all you know.  Poor fish.

Then, there is Hank, who is arguably having the worst day of all.  He woke up yesterday looking like this: 

Ye-owww!  The picture doesn't even do it justice.  I hope that's not considered puppy pornography or something.  I only include the picture to remove all doubt that it is all in my maternally-paranoid head. 

Even worse, I have to yell at the poor little bugger every five minutes to stop him from scratching/biting himself.  It's become kind of a game.  I will hear him scratching behind me, and turn around really fast and stealth-like to catch him in the act.  He is sitting there, leg in the air, mid-scratch, looking guilty as if to say, "What?  That wasn't me, that was that other dog that looks like me."  Hank does not have a good poker face for sure. 

Oh, and by the way, we had the rash tested at the vet, and it is scabies.  Somebody's got some 'splaining to do!  (Actually, that is a joke and he got it from the park dammit!  WE ARE NOT DIRTY SCABIES-HARBORING TRASH PEOPLE!)  Of course, even after some intense oatmeal baths, antibacterial ointments, and cleansing techniques of every variety, we all caught it, too.  We are one big, itchy, disease-ridden family.

So yeah, all God's creatures are having a  rough go of it today.  So for chrissake, hug an animal today.  Unless it has scabies, in which case  just think some nice thoughts for the animal while fleeing the area.

This Is for Me, Not You

Boyfriend and I are househunting.  By that, I mean I am doing all the legwork and he randomly vetoes perfectly good houses without even seeing them because they don't have a dishwasher or some equally ludicrous reason (Hello... it's a house... you can put that shit in yourself moron!).  I am going to share a cutesy couple story so that in the coming weeks I can refer to it when I feel like socking him in the mouth, which will be about every five minutes.

Coming attractions... Hank gets a disgusting rash and spreads it to every member of the family!  Rae tries to explain to a mortgage professional why she has no income without revealing personal information!  Rae applies for a job!  Rae finds out that househunting and two families go together like peanut butter and shit!  Hilarity ensues!!

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I met Boyfriend at a mutual acquaintance's party one night.  We instantly bonded over our mutual dislike of said acquaintance.  Most of the night was spent in a corner discussing various tried and true small-talk topics, school, work, siblings, etc.  He finally asked me out on a date when I told him of my amusing desire to see "Passion of the Christ"* for purely academic purposes (I am both a student of Catholic schools and classical language, so I am doubly qualified to point out any and all inaccuracies in the movie). 

So the next week, we found time in our harried schedules to go on a date.  I arrived at the movie theater of his choosing, totally late because of a wardrobe-induced near-panic attack.  He had already bought the tickets, and we headed down the hallway to... yes, you guessed it... "Passion of the Christ."  It's true, I am more than a little embarrassed to admit that we saw Mel Gibson's mega-million crucifixion lovechild on our first date.  Yikes.

I didn't even get a chance to do any of my factual nitpicking, as I spent most of the movie trying to hatch a plot to gracefully ditch this bozo that thought religious gore was a good icebreaker.  By the time the credits started rolling, I determined that I would excuse myself to the bathroom, call a friend and instruct them to call me back feigning an emergency. 

I started to get out of my seat.  Then, surrounded by blubbering religious maniacs of all persuasions, Boyfriend leaned over and whispered to me, "Wait, let's stay.  There might be a blooper reel." 

It was at that moment I knew that there was a double suite in Hell reserved just for us. 

* Link provided in case you are the last person on EARTH not inundated by the constant press about this movie.