Limbodacious

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??

Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off (An Unapologetic Rant for My Own Amusement)

1.  Friends who have been thoroughly unsupportive and unavailable to me in my darkest hour calling me up to bitch and moan about stupid things like, say, possibly losing their job at their college because they were caught drinking underage.  Don't call your terminally ill "friend" to whine about something that is your own damn fault when said friend has to beg for the table scraps of your time between your more important meetings and parties.  My advice: don't break the law, dipshit.

2.  When I go out on the balcony to smoke, and immediately after lighting a cigarette, I realize my last cigarette was not entirely extinguished, so the whole ashtray is on fire, and I am consumed by the putrid odor of burning filters and old cigars.  Then I have to run inside, cigarette still lit in my hand, to get a glass of water to put the whole mess out.  Then my relaxing smoke break is degraded into an attempt to avoid gagging at the wet shitsmoke smell.  And upon my re-entry into the apartment, I notice that the place now smells like smoke, which is not a big deal if you routinely smoke in the apartment, but one cigarette in a smoke-free household is instantly obvious and overwhelming.  Oh, wait, the shitsmoke has clung to me, and I'm what stinks.

3.  People to whom I owe money calling me for the 800th time today to "remind" me that a payment is due the next day, when I have already informed the last 799 callers that I simply cannot pay it.  One hostile guilt trip per day is more than sufficient to get your point across, thank you.  And even though I should be paid for putting up with your constant shit, I am not bringing in any income, so you can take your deadline and shove it. 

4.  My appetite has recently come back with a vengeance, but my stomach must have shrunk or something because I just can't handle the amount of food my hunger desires.  So, I am always either a.) starving or b.) stuffed to the point of nausea.  What the fuck, Stomach?  Know your limits.  Tonight, since I knew there was no food to be eaten at home, my insatiable hunger led me to the drive-thru at McDonald's so I could get something totally bland and just enough to fill my stomach up a little.  Of course, the night-shift jerk misunderstood "cheeseburger, with only ketchup" to mean "cheeseburger, with only ketchup and a shitload of pepper."  Seriously, I had to check to make sure that I wasn't eating a pepper-log soaked in a little beef juice instead.  Mmmm.  Needless to say, that did wonders for both my upper and lower GI tract.  Oh, and I was still fucking hungry because I could hardly be in the same room as that sorry excuse for a beef patty.  Thanks, asshole cheeseburger, for ruining my night.

5.  My persisting inability, despite my best efforts, to hibernate.

More Insurance Woes, Or, Does Anybody Have a Chainsaw I Can Borrow?

I have just been informed via telephone, that my Orthopedic Surgeon, who seems considerably less adorable now, will not be taking off my fucking cast in two weeks because I don't have insurance.

Hey Life... you suck.

Repent Ye with Bigoted Bumper Stickers, Or Ye Shall Perish in an Intentional Motor Vehicle Accident

Thank you for your kind comments on yesterday's post.  I slept off most of the morbid thoughts, and am now progressing into the rage phase of my existential crisis, which will swiftly cycle into the manic-upswing phase.  So bear with me.

Today a car passed me going at least 90 mph, with a multitude of bible-banger bumper stickers (say that three times fast).  As the driver and his infant daughter in a car seat in the front of the car flew by me, I was shocked by the sticker that encompassed the entirety of his front and back driver's side car doors.

JESUS HATES SIN!

Ummm, is that so?  I never really picked up on any relation between Jesus and morality.  Thank god you were there, Mr. Unsafe Bigot Driver!  I am saved!

Do these people actually expect to elicit a drive-by spiritual awakening from other drivers on the highway?  Do they really think they are helping people by broadcasting their religious views in this fashion?

Of course not.  They don't give a shit about your eternal soul.  They just want to show the world that they are better, and to inform everyone that all you non-white-upper-middle-class-Protestant-militant, abortion mongering, towelhead faggot, reasonable sons of bitches are going to HELL. 

Well you know what asshole?  I don't believe in hell, so take your antiquated, holier-than-thou, baby-endangering, intolerant, war-loving, fire and brimstone BULLSHIT bumper stickers and shove them up your ass.  After you remove the stick, of course.

And by the way, your daughter is so going to be a lesbian Democrat when she grows up.  If you don't kill her, that is.

Rotten Eggs, Sour Grapes

This blog is mostly about cancer, but I would also like to address other serious illnesses that affect many people.  This one in particular is close to my heart, because it is the one that Boyfriend suffers from.

My boyfriend suffers from MMS - Magical Mommy Syndrome.  For his entire childhood, he would leave his belongings, dirty dishes, etc all around the house, go out, and when he came back, Voila!  House clean.

Gone unchecked, MMS can progress into the much more life-threatening condition, Magical Girlfriend Disease.  Complications include, but are not limited to, excessive nagging, silent treatment, and sexual side effects.

So, for the sake of Boyfriend's health and general well-being, Girlfriend went on strike.  No more enabling, he has to face his disease.  I took him off his palliative drugs cold turkey, no more running after him picking up the socks, cell phones, dishes, papers, towels, hangers, crumbs, and whatever other forms of trash he was dulling the pain with.

It has been four days.  Boyfriend has no idea.

To be fair, my standards of cleanliness are right up there with Fermilab's.  But I am less stringent on Boyfriend.  He has three household charges:  taking out the trash, moderate cleanup after cooking, and keeping the office (aka "his closet") at least somewhat clean.

If you think I am being unreasonable and/or anal, please consider the following evidence to get an idea of how filthy the place has to get before it shows up on Boyfriend's radar:

   

It is starting to look like the strike is going to affect my health.  But I will perservere, for Boyfriend's sake.

Bless This, Bitch

Occasionally late at night, I go into cancer chat rooms.  These places, like all other cancer resources, are usually filled with people double my age or older.  Tonight I was talking to another woman with ovarian cancer, and we were discussing different treatments we had, where we were from, and having a pretty nice commiseration.  Then, after a while, as people always do, she asked how old I was.  I told her, 21.

After hearing my age, she said, "Oh, bless your heart" and proceeded to strike up a conversation with someone else.  Maybe she had just exhausted her getting-to-know-you questions or maybe she wanted to include a less talkative member, but I felt like I had been dumped because of my age.

I don't exactly know what "Bless your heart" means.  I do know that it is my go-to phrase when someone shows me a picture of their toddler with a bucket on their head, so I'm pretty sure it doesn't mean, "I understand what you're going through and I'm sorry this happened to you." 

I mean, here was someone that up until that point I was having a perfectly dignified, adult conversation with for ten minutes.  And then all of a sudden, I was just some kid who was obviously too young to understand the complexities of what I, myself, what going through.  When I find out someone is 20+ years my senior, I don't say, "Shut up, granny, you have a husband and kids and you went into remission after your first round of chemo."  I don't say that because a) Despite how I might seem in this journal, I try not to be outwardly rude for no reason, and b) I don't have a clue what that person's life is. 

Talking to others affected by cancer often makes me feel like the little kid who wants to eat at the adult table at Thanksgiving.  (And even though she says no, grandma gives me some pudding to pacify me.)  Even as this collective group of so-called "survivors" and "warriors," the cancer world has devolved to the high-school level of cliques.  And just like in high school, I am not a perfect fit into any of them.   

Of course, it is nice to find someone with whom you share more things than just cancer.  But after a year of scouring the internet for sarcastic, cynical 20-somethings with ovarian cancer, I have found only 2.  So I am willing to expand my search criteria to find more people to talk to, if they will have me.   Isn't having cancer bad enough, without being shunned by the people who are supposedly there to support you because of age, creed, or what-have-you?

Oh, and on an entirely different note, my post-surgery bloodwork shows all markers are down almost to normal range.  And follow-up PET/CT doesn't show any new tumors or anything growing down there.  Good news all around!  Whew.

Dr. Evil

When I go to an accountant, I trust that he will know how to do my taxes.  When my computer is broken, I feel no anxiety over leaving it with the geeky-in-a-cute-way computer tech guy at the store.  And most importantly, when I was waiting in the ER to have surgery on a "suspicious" ruptured cyst, I knew that the man who they got out of bed to perform my surgery was qualified and proficient.

For most people, surgery is quite the planned event.  There is going around town to find a good surgeon, meeting with him, having pre-op blood work and a consultation.  I did not have the opportunity to even find out what the hell was going on inside me, let alone hand-pick the man who was going to fix it.  That night, I discovered the classic ER equation:  intense pain + intense painkillers = Just show me where to sign to get rid of whatever is causing this.  I didn't even realize I was going to have surgery, I found out that bit of information after I woke up. 

I guess I was a naive patient.  I had always been unusually healthy, and 12 years of Catholic schooling had taught me nothing about my body and how it was supposed to function.  I was so embarrassed that something was wrong in my "female region" that I didn't even call my mom or anyone to meet me at the hospital, eliminating the need for me to make life-and-death decisions while doped up on morphine. 

The hospital paged two people with the letters "OB/GYN" after their name and whoever answered their pager first is who I got.  The doctor who answered was a bad, bad man.  While the nurse was putting cute slipper socks on to keep my feet warm, this man was on his way to the hospital to change my life forever.

The actual events after that are not extremely relevant.  Suffice to say this man was not qualified to do a debulking surgery or administer chemotherapy, and that directly caused the nightmarish non-stop year of treatment that ensued.  Luckily by sheer coincidence, I saw another doctor a few months into treatment who spotted the problems right away. 

My ER surgeon lost his medical license in a matter unrelated to me, and this fact was relayed to me via the gynecology grapevine.  When I heard, I was deeply embarrassed to admit that I had seen him for over three months, that I never suspected a thing, that I quite literally trusted this quack with my life.

I feel compelled to tell this story even though it is a source of great humiliation to me.  I can't tell you what the moral of the story is, I can't even tell you my point in telling it.  I certainly haven't been able to make sense of it yet.  So maybe I will feel I need to tell it again and again until someday, it makes sense.  But until then, the only useful thing that I can glean from this experience is to always get a second opinion.