Limbodacious

This Post Brought to You Disclaimer-Free in High-Definition Excitement

I wanted to painstakingly draw this news out all dramatic-like, but screw it.

I am in remission.

I'M NOT LISTENING, Maintenance Therapy!!

WHAT'S THAT, Cautious Optimism?

LALALALALA Chance of Recurrence I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!

Today I will not allow my delight to be tempered by caution. I will laugh and dance  and play music no one else likes at eardrum-shattering volume.  I will allow my tears of joy to wash away the pain and anguish of the past year and a half.   I will stick my tongue out at the Universe.  Today I will be recklessly happy.

But We're Not Talking about That

At an undisclosed time in the very near future, I may or may not be traveling to a neighboring state, where I may or may not be talking to an Unidentified Medical Type about a drug which may or may not be classified as a "maintenance" drug, which I could hypothetically take, if and only if my Very Important CT scan next week gives me some good news, which my doctor may or may not have indicated was possible. 

So if you don't hear from me this weekend, it's definitely not because I am off planning for the future in a hopeful sort of way.  This is the last you will hear of it.  I will not tempt the fates.

And by the way, Cooper is cuter than ever and recovering well.  Knock on wood.

Square Peg

All my friends are smokers.  We hang out in dark places, with loud music and questionable characters.  We often lose track of time, and before we know it they are turning off the lights and we have breezed through an entire pack of cigarettes. 

Then, I come home to my immaculate apartment and climb into bed with my wholesome boyfriend.  As soon as I lay down, the smell of smoke and seedy people overwhelms me.  When everyone is smoking, you don't smell the smoke.  But when you come out of the vacuum, it is obvious and overpowering.  An intrusion into the pristine, unknowing world of everyone else. 

I come on this blog, and talk to other people afflicted with cancer.  I visit support groups, and associate largely with my friends and family who know every minutiae of my treatments.  We talk cancer, eat and breathe cancer.  But every so often, I have to do "real" things, like take my dog to the vet or go shopping for new bath towels.

I have to leave the vacuum.  I am on my own, in the gas station or at a store, and that's when it becomes palpable that I am different.  I am an alien inhabiting a human body, trying desperately to fit in, unsure of the right language or behavior.  I can smell the stink of illness on me as I pass the other people going about their errands.  I feel dirty, contaminated, inferior.  I wonder if they can smell me coming. 

I can't imagine ever going back into that world and feeling like I fit in.  I could be cancer-free for ten years, but would I ever feel normal again?  I have experienced enough pain for many lifetimes, I almost died, and now I'm out browsing for blenders like anyone else?  I'm back to the endless string of dead-end jobs?  I'm clipping coupons for the grocery?  Is there any way to end a sentence like that without it sounding ludicrous and anticlimactic? 

How can anyone ever move on from this?  How does anyone lead a normal life after a traumatic experience of this magnitude?  Are they just sucking it up and pretending, or is there some special trick they teach you at your last chemo appointment? 

I am different and will always be different.  Many people will pass me on the street and never know, they can't see the stain on my soul.  But I know that no matter what I do, no matter how much I immerse myself in the clean world of the normal population, the stink of cancer will never be washed away. 

Yeah, "Wisdom" Is Exactly What I Need Right Now

Fucking dentists.  After four (FOUR!) trips to the dentist to resolve a simple cavity, the most notable of which resulting in a short stint in the ER, the problem still hasn't been fixed.  So I begrudgingly dragged my ass back to the dentist yet again.

He poked around in my mouth, hmm-hmming all the while, and then exclaimed, "Hey!  Your wisdom teeth are coming in!"

Sometimes you have to laugh.  I mean, what else can you do? 

Now let's see, should I take the despondent/pitiful I-went-through-all-this-shit-before-my-wisdom-teeth-came-in angle, the contemplative/nostalgic why-does-this-seem-to-be-a-recurring-theme-in-my-life angle, or the sarcastic/ironic after-everything-that-has-happened-do-I-really-need-four-superfluous-molars-to-be-considered-wise angle?  It's a toss up, really.

I think that the term "wisdom teeth" was conceived, brought into everyday usage, and said by millions of people for hundreds of years just to build up to this moment, to play a cruel joke on me.  Here I am, financially broke and physically broken, with a year and a half of pain no person my age should ever experience under my belt, and now my wisdom was breaking to the surface.

Wisdom teeth coming in usually mark the start of "real" adulthood.  Not 18-and-doesn't-vote-and-still-in-high-school adulthood, not 21-and-a-human-alcohol-disposal adulthood.  The kind of adulthood where you realize that forgoing dental insurance so you can get those PHAT clear headlights everyone is buying probably wasn't the best idea.

But I don't need to be told that life doesn't come easy, that the world is unfair, that you must work excruciatingly hard just to get by these days.  I don't need this kind of wisdom.  I don't need this kind of headache.  (See how I brought it back to wisdom teeth causing headaches, but headaches also meaning "stress"?  I am obviously so wise.  Oh, but the metaphor gets thicker, read on.)

I can feel the pressure of my body trying to resist this "wisdom" from rupturing through its protective layers all the time.  Each day is a reminder of the "wise" adage, "SHIT HAPPENS."  The strain of life's lessons bursting into my life uninvited threatens to break my spirit all the time.  And honestly, all this maturity of character just isn't worth it.

I once heard a girl about my age in about the same circumstance say, "I just want to be young and silly."  Whenever I think about it (which is often), I get a little misty-eyed, for the innocence lost not just by me, but all young people who had to grow up quickly due to suffering.

Individuals are praised for being "wise beyond their years."  But what I miss the most is my naivety, the firm belief that I am invincible and the unshakable faith that everything will turn out all right.  Why do we focus so much on growing up, moving on, taking responsibility, and learning things the hard way?  Slow the fuck down, I say.  All of these things inevitably require pain to achieve. 

I guess being wise isn't that bad.  I don't waste money or time.  I can secretly feel superior to other people my age who haven't learned that shit happens yet.  People ask me to solve their problems because they respect my opinion, but I know enough not to give them advice.   I feel secure the vast majority of the time.

I know that my life quite literally depends on my maturity, organization, and caution.  I know I can't live life recklessly without fearing the consequences.  I have had to grow up too much to ever be naive again.  And really, it's not so bad a lot of the time.  But just beneath the surface, there is that constant yearning for life before everything got complicated. 

Sometimes, I just want to be young.  But that would be silly.

The New Deal

I have been reading over some of my old posts (Note to self: don't do that).  I have noticed a distinct shift in my writing and overall attitude.

I used to be a happy person.  Cynical and sarcastic, yes.  But generally happy.  I used to be able to let things slide, to see the light at the end of the tunnel (Note to self: never say that again, you freaking sappy bastard).  But upon reading some of my more recent posts (and you should see my unpublished drafts!  Lord allmighty), I saw a brooding, morose, neurotic, spiteful person that I just didn't recognize.  I realized that I have become what I never wanted to be.  A bitter, angst-filled bitch. 

I know, I know.  You probably don't think that's what I am.  Thank you, but I have the advantage of knowing myself pretty intimately.  I'm not basing this assessment purely on my posts, which I try to happify at least a little for the benefit of the reader.  I am angry, I am mean.  And yes, for the record, I also know that I am dealing with a lot of shit, and most of you would probably even say that I deserve to be bitchy. 

But the fact is, that can't be me.  That won't be me.  That, simply, is not me. 

Since I am unwilling to accept that I have simply come unglued by cancer and that's that, I must make some changes.  I can't change my situation or my past, and I can't control what happens in microscopic cells inside my body.  But I can work toward a higher level of acceptance of myself and my life.  And so, I unveil Rae's 10-Point Plan for a Better Me (a.k.a. "The Rules").

1.  I will put off to tomorrow what I can't get done today.  I will not spiral into an exhaustive, trembling panic attack when the laundry piles up or the bills are a week late.  I will not demand that I be a perfect housekeeper and/or hostess.  When people come over, I will not apologize for the mess, even if it is messy.  I will tell myself, "No one is going to die if this doesn't get done."

2.  I will say yes.  I will not pretend to be an island or a rootin'-tootin' chemo-guzzlin' superhero.  When people offer to help, I will take them up on it and thank them for it.  I will understand that everyone wins in this situation, because I get a break and they get to feel good for helping out.

3.  I will say no.  I will make plans with only those people I really want to see, and only on those days I really want to see them.  I will cancel if I do not feel well or for any other reason, and I will not feel bad about it.  I will understand that the people who truly matter will understand this policy, and won't be offended.  I will ease up on social niceties and not do anything out of obligation alone.  I will do things that make me happy only as long as they make me happy.

4. I will seek balance.  I will allow myself a certain acceptable amount of bitterness over the events of the past year and a half.  After that, I will understand that I cannot control these events and not harbor a grudge against the Universe.  I will not brood, but I will not wax over the difficulties I face.  I will neither downplay the good things in my life nor romanticize the bad things.  I will be realistic yet hopeful.  I will not allow an illness to fundamentally change my personality.

5.  I will give myself a break.  If I can't work/study, I will accept this.  If I can work/study, I will limit my hours and be reasonable in my expectations of self.  I will not obsess over the decision either way.  I will demand that an employer/school be able to work with my unique needs, and if they won't, I will walk out and not look back.  I will not feel guilty about being unable to contribute to the household, but I will make sure Boyfriend knows how appreciative I am of his support.  I will hold my health above all other priorities, even if that means living paycheck to paycheck.

6.  I will not compare myself to anyone else.  I will accept that my life is fundamentally different than other people's, so I cannot be expected to hit the same milestones at the same time.  I will accept my pace, and not try to rush the healing process.  I will embrace others' paths and and expect them to embrace mine. 

7.  I will understand that I cannot control everything.  I will not demand perfection from myself.  I will not berate myself for perceived failures, when they aren't my fault.  I will understand that getting cancer is not the result of something I did or didn't do.  I will work to improve my life where I am able, and deal with the rest as it comes.

8.  I will put faith in my own personal strength.  If I suffer a setback, I will remember that I have weathered many storms, and I will make it through this one.  If I go deaf, I will go on and live a normal life like so many other deaf people before me.  If my chemo fails, I will try another with the knowledge that I have survived many other treatments.  I will not escape unscathed, but I will deal with my problems in the mature and resolute attitude that has served me so well throughout life.

9.  I will indulge myself.  I will not feel bad for spending money on unnecessary items, like my fancy facewash or a cute haircut.  I will smoke if that helps me relax, and I won't feel bad about it.  I will not live like a monk just because I have fallen on hard times.  I will tell myself and anyone who makes it their business that I deserve some creature comforts, and even a bad habit or two.

10.  I will break all of these rules.  When that happens, I will forgive myself immediately and try to do better the next time. 

Who the Fuck Was I Kidding with This Moratorium, Anyway?

Boyfriend came home from work today and said to me, "Wow, you look... exasperated."

Which is an entirely accurate observation.  Exasperated is exactly what I am.  I am having what my former therapist would have classified a "semi-major meltdown."

I could go on and on about what is going on right now to make me exasperated.  But that is not the problem itself.  The problem is that I am holding my hands up, screaming to the Universe, "Please, just give me a break!  Give me a moment's rest!" and the Universe is shrugging and telling me, "Tough shit, girlie." 

I just wanted a few weeks to relax, to just not deal with a crisis.  I declared a moratorium.  Was that not clear enough, Universe?  But no, NO, there's just no way that I could have just a few uneventful weeks to enjoy the weather, play with my dogs, and go on a date with my boyfriend.  Apparently that is just too fucking much to ask.  How dare I.

Cooper is terribly sick (Fortunately, because I am an experte on All Things Nauseous, I quickly suspected a bowel obstruction and rushed him to the vet.  Unfortunately, my suspicion was correct.  So he required emergency surgery, paid for with the money earmarked for our closing costs.).  Boyfriend's brother is um, problematic, which I won't get into further because it's private.  I am desperately broke, but keep being turned down for jobs that I am grossly overqualified for.  A buildup of fluid in my ears has caused me to lose control of my balance and go completely deaf.

When you're sick, you expect that the world will slow down, cut you some slack.  WELL WAKE THE FUCK UP.  It doesn't.  Dogs get sick, people die, taxes are due... Life keeps on moving all around you, regardless of whether or not you can keep up.  And I can't keep up.   No matter how much I sleep, I'm exhausted.  There are tears oozing up behind my eyes all the time, unleashed at the smallest of inconveniences.  I feel worthless and incapable of doing anything right.  I am falling apart, shutting down.

It came to a head when I went to the ENT to figure out why I couldn't hear.  I need surgery to put shunts (Warning: if you click on that link, DO NOT click on the "See Picture" button.  Seriously.) in my ears but he couldn't fit me in until Monday.  MONDAY!  What could an ENT be doing that would keep him so busy?  Am I interrupting his demanding popsicle-handing-out schedule??

Then, his bright idea is to prescribe me diuretics until Monday, to get rid of some of the fluid.  To this suggestion I replied, and I'm paraphrasing here, "DIURETICS?  REALLY?  I WEIGH 91 POUNDS, MY BLOOD PRESSURE IS 75/55, AND MY KIDNEYS HAVE FAILED!  GO READ A BOOK, YOU STUPID, SHORT-SIGHTED, TONSIL-TAKING MOTHERFUCKER!"  So I just have to wait in silence until Monday.  Which makes me exasperated.

I am angry and desperate and depressed.  I swear to god, this blog was just recovering from the last bad news, and I was really trying to be happy.  Positive thinking, my aching ass.  My body is literally shutting down, organ by organ, no matter what attitude I adopt.

It seems like the entire world is aligning not to make things easier for me, but to make them harder.  Why?  Don't I deserve a break, ever?  Why does life seem so backbreaking and punitive all the time?  I've tried to be a good person, but I feel like I am paying for some mortal sin committed in the past.  Am I just a weak person who can't deal with the normal rigors of everyday life?  How do other people do it?  (Have you noticed that when I get really angry, I abuse italics and ask a lot of questions?)

I always knew that life wouldn't be easy.  But this is fucking ridiculous.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about My Kidneys and My Spiritual Awakening

People have been asking after my kidneys.  I truly appreciate the offers of support and, um, organs.  I wasn't going to post about it because, to be honest, the whole thing is terribly boring.  But I give the people what they want!  And for some reason, the people want to know about my kidneys.  The people are strange.

I apologize in advance, because this is going to be a huge conglomo-post encompassing All Things Renal.  (Note:  I divided it into chapters because they were written at different times in different frames of mind, and are not necessarily meant to "go together.")   (Note about the note:  I didn't want to sacrifice jokes for continuity.  Is that wrong?)

CHAPTER THE FIRST: WHAT THE DEALIO

On a 1-10 scale, 1 being No Big Deal and 10 being A Big Fucking Deal, my kidney failure ranks at about an 8.  BUT, I was prepared for this.  After all the nephrotoxic chemos (most notably my high-dose Cisplatin), infections, and antibiotics, it was really a matter of time.  Before you jump all over my doctors, the correct precautions were taken.  But there is only so much the body can bear, and it was very likely that my kidneys would take a huge blow from chemo after chemo.  After much discussion, I determined this to be an accepted cost, and a plan has been in place to deal with it should the situation arise.  Most likely, my most recent infection and subsequent course of antibiotics aggravated it to the point where I need dialysis. 

I thank you for all your kidney offers.  Ha, that is a sentence I never expected to say.   I will be on dialysis until I can get a transplant.  But don't break out the scalpels yet.  On a 1-10 scale, 1 being Astronomical and 10 being Never Gonna Happen, the likelihood of orchestrating such an event ranks about a 9.5.  I have a rare blood type, my mother doesn't match, my father matches but his kidneys are very much the worse for wear after 20 years of alcoholism and 30 years of uncontrolled diabetes, and I am an only child*.  Oh yeah, and there is that pesky business of having to be cancer-free to get put on the list.  Not to mention the fact that it could be years before I am healthy enough to undergo the surgery and after-care.

So, long story, er, somewhat less long, I am not holding my breath.  But I will follow my mother's advice and "put it out to the universe."  (Useless crazy-ass new-age touchy-feely dipshit ASSvice.  I mean, thanks, mom.)  For the purpose of this post, "universe" is defined to mean this blog.

Cranberry Juice Lover Seeks Same

Helpless invalid seeking living or dead male or female for candlelit liquid dinners, deep narcotic-induced conversations, and long-term recuperation.  You be able-bodied or braindead, I'll be groggy and desperate.  B- a must, 4+ antigen match a huge plus.  No fatties, please.

* For the highly astute thinking, "Hey!  I thought you mentioned sisters!!"  You are not crazy.  They are step-sisters.

CHAPTER THE SECOND:  A STRANGE OCCURRENCE NEGATES THE SIGNIFICANCE OF CHAPTER THE FIRST

I may have a miracle on my hands.  First off, let me say that I do not think believing in miracles requires a belief in a higher power*.  For the purposes of this discussion, I will define miracle to mean, "any act which occurs spontaneously, has positive outcomes for the involved parties, and cannot be explained by traditional logic." 

Consider:  When I was six years old, I was living with my grandma somewhere off a rural road in Appalachia.  We were perpetually broke and sometimes ran out of food.  On the day in question, we had searched every nook and cranny of the kitchen for something that could be made into a meal, and turned up bubkus.  It was so hot that I decided to stick my head in the freezer for a minute.  When I opened the freezer, there was a frozen pizza in it.  We had looked in that exact spot not five minutes earlier, and my grandma never bought frozen pizzas.

This is the memory that rushed to the forefront of my mind last week. 

Periodically, when I go in for dialysis, they draw blood to check my kidney function.  This is basically done to make sure dialysis is working, and to see if they need to tweak anything.  Obviously, my numbers have gotten better since I started dialysis, since the machine is filtering out most of the gunk for me.  But, you see, the other week's blood draw yielded unusual results.  In between my treatments, my numbers improved from the previous week.  Dialysis is an extremely controlled and consistent procedure, so the numbers should stay basically the same ("basically" to allow for minute variations due to diet, etc).

So the doctor decided to do blood draws every treatment, and the upward trend continued.  Which means (and I hesitate to even dare to say this next part, for fear of jinxing the whole enterprise), my kidneys are improving all by themselves.  I want to impress firmly that this is impossible.  Seriously.  Impossible.  (Do I have to explain?  Just trust me.  The whole scientific bit will take away from the momentum of how weird this whole thing is.)

Upon looking at the results, my seasoned nephrologist with 30 years of experience disbelievingly muttered, "Oh... my... god."   If my kidneys continue to improve at this pace, I may not even need dialysis in, say, six months.  (To the All-Knowing Eye of the Internet, if you're looking, KNOCK ON WOOD.)

And like I said, that's impossible.

So what the hell?  Is this a miracle?  I reluctantly admit that it must be.  And you know what else?  I deserve it.  The Universe is settling its debt with me, and it's about time.

* Note to Higher Power, if in fact You do exist:  Thanks for the whole kidney thing, that rocked.  Do you think you could maybe take care of this little tumor problem I have?

Top Three Things I Really Fucking Hate about Cancer (Warning: Crude Post Ahead, Even for Me)

There is much to write about.  We bought a house.  I had my first treatment of Skronk (name selected by the highly scientific close-eyes-and-point method).  I feel like shit, and I'm not supposed to.  I got an email from someone who thought I died.  And to top it all off, a possible miracle occurred.

But, like I said, I feel like shit.  So here is a generic pre-fab post for you until I get some energy to write about something substantive.  And make sure to tell me your own Top Three!

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The Top Three Things I Really Fucking Hate about Cancer

Number Three:  Body Image Issues

I don't care who you are, you care about what you look like.  Especially if you are a woman.  Especially if you are emotionally vulnerable due to a traumatic event, like being diagnosed with cancer.  Yes, what really matters is on the inside blah blah blah, but let's face it, we care about our appearance.

When dealing with cancer, there are many things that affect how you look.  Of course the most noticeable is the loss of hair.  I was never one to care much about my hair.  My dad always teased me, saying every time he saw me my hair was different.  It was always short, because I couldn't stand to not cut it all the time.  I dyed it every color imaginable (except RED - no red for me!).  And so it may have appeared to some (and even myself) that I just didn't care about my hair.  But of course the truth is that I cared about it so much that I always wanted something fresh and new.  I loved changing my hair to suit my mood, to express my personality.

When I shaved my head, I was completely numb.  I did the whole head without looking in the mirror once to check my progress.  It didn't feel that bad, although I did notice the huge pile of hair on the bathroom floor.  When I finally looked at myself, I was totally horrified.  I thought, there is no one uglier than me right now.

But after a while, I just got used to it.  Sometimes I was a little surprised to see how gaunt and pale I was in the morning, but it bothered me less and less each day.  Then, cancer dealt me an even crueler blow.  Right when I had started accepting myself as a bandanna-wearing waif, I stopped chemo.  My cheeks filled back out, and I looked like a chubby toddler.  My hair started growing back, but I quickly realized there is just nothing to be done with a 1/2 centimeter of hair that sticks straight up, no matter how much industrial-strength adhesive is applied.

I am still not happy with how I look.  It pains me, because I used to be quite confident and even proud of my appearance.  I don't know if I will ever have the same level of confidence again.  I feel really cheated to have that taken away from me.

Number Two:  Problem Poop

Okay, I wasn't going to mention this, because I normally do not talk about bowel movements EVER, but I can't deny that this is a huge frustration.  Between chemo, a diagnosis of Crohn's disease, and a bowel obstruction, things could be a lot better for me in the poop department.  To say the least. 

Not only is it a constant source of pain and irritation, but I also feel like I can't talk to anybody about it.  Although some people can talk openly about these issues with family or friends without judgment, I definitely can't.  For one, I am a prude.  For two, everybody else around me is a prude, too.  Constipation, diarrhea, and cramps fall squarely under the category of Things We Do Not Discuss Under Any Circumstances, Ever. 

All through my treatments I have fluctuated constantly between "Oh my god I can feel the shit BACKING UP inside of me like some kind of intestinal traffic jam!" and "Holy Christ make it stop, it burns!"  And let me just tell you, there is nothing better to get you and your SO in the mood for love.  Try the new couple's game, "Honey, Guess How Many Feet of My Bowel Were Filled with Liquid Diarrhea before Surgery!"  (And if you liked that, you'll love "Honey, Can You Look on My Stomach to See If I Have a Colostomy Bag?" NEW! from Mattel)  It is humiliating and nauseating to discuss these problems with Boyfriend. 

The only thing worse than being in pain, is being ashamed to ask for help with it.  And that is exactly the situation I am in with my bowel trouble.

The Number One, All-Time Thing I Really Fucking Hate:  Pills.  Goddamn Pills.

Everyone has a phobia, right?  Mine is swallowing pills, always has been.  Just thinking about it makes me ill.  I have to stare at the pills for a good ten minutes trying to psyche myself up for it.  Then as soon as I get the pill in my mouth, these images of me choking on it and getting sick flash through my mind.  Which, of course, cause me to choke on it and get sick. 

I think it might go back to when I was camping a long time ago.  I put an Advil in my mouth, thinking I was right next to the water fountain.  I wasn't.  It started to dissolve on my tongue, which is NOT PLEASANT, and I started to gag, so I had to drink the hot water for coffee to get the pill down.  But by that time, it had made me so sick, that I threw up the acidic, half-dissolved-on-my-tongue pill and the hot water (which was, as you might imagine, still quite hot on the trip back up).  Oh my god.  I can't think about that anymore.

And it's not like, every so often I have to take a pill or two.  I take roughly 10-15 pills a day.  A day!!  So I have to go through the repressed memory, the choking, and the resulting anxiety attack over and over again every single day.   

Not to mention that the worst isn't over once the pill is swallowed.  A lot of the pills have a lot of side effects, especially antibiotics, which give me terrible nausea and constitute the majority of the pills I take every day.  Over the past year, I have probably swallowed half my body weight in antibiotics alone.  And I will have to take them for the foreseeable future, whether I have any infections or not.

[ For the know-it-all medically-inclined reader screaming "BUT RAE! ANTIBIOTIC RESISTANCE!" at the computer screen, calm down.  I am not a breeding ground for smallpox and other oft-forgotten diseases of lore.  My body simply does not have the capabilities to fend off the normal bacteria in my body after my high-dose chemotherapy.   Like when a girl douches, and takes away the resistance to the yeast down there, and she gets a yeast infection.  The high-dose was like a full-body douche* that took away my ability to fight off normally-present bacteria for a long, long time.  So, antibiotics are the course, infection or no infection. ]

Taking all these damn pills is exhausting, physically and mentally, for me.  They** always say you have to face your fears to cure them.  But I face mine a million times a day, and I am still afraid of pills.  Having to take them just reminds me over and over how scared I am, and certainly doesn't help to "conquer the fear."  It just sucks.  SUCKS. 

So there you have my list.  [Honorable Mentions:  Hearing impairment, shingles, and loss of independence]

I'm sure if you asked 100 cancer patients to make their own, you would have 100 different lists on your hands.  For those of you who have had cancer/an illness/a traumatic life event/anything that falls under the "Shitty Things" category, what are your Top Three?

* I can't believe I said that.  Ewww, fucking ewwww.  Excuse me, I have to go douche my mouth now.

** Whoever They are.

Intermission.

She found herself hopelessly lost.  She cried out for help, but the echo merely bounced off the rocks and returned to her.  Frozen, she searched the misty landscape with her eyes, and... and...

I swear, I used to be pretty good at this writing gig.  (Seriously!  If you scour the Sale Half Off 75-cent bin at the right roadside vendor, you may just find an anthology with a little something by me.  Although I would never admit to having penned it.)  The problem with this thing we call a blog, at least for me, is that it is too informal and too present in the moment.  (Gah! that was TWO problems!  Where has my strict adherence to antecedent agreement gone??)

When you read a story, the natural ending is, well, the ending.  But I find myself writing about things that are happening right now, the ending simply hasn't happened yet.  Every post is a cliffhanger, and you can't just flip to the next chapter to see how our Beguiling Heroine resolves the situation.  You have to wait, and wait in real time.  And maybe, gasp, you will never know.  Maybe there is no resolution.  My blog is constantly stuck in the suspense of Act 2, without the emotional release of wrappings-up in Act 3.

If my life were a work of literature, I would waste no time selling it back to the used book store.  But instead, I have to live it.  And how tedious it can be.

I feel guilty sometimes, knowing that I am the constant bearer of bad news, that I am not able to provide the moral of the story yet.  There is no happily ever after, not even a thoughtfully bittersweet lesson learned. 

When I chose the name "Limbodacious" for this site, it was an impulse.  I wanted something that conveyed the meaning of "limbo" in some sort of clever play on words.  I tried lots of combinations, but limbodacious was the only one that wasn't taken yet.  Truth be told, I was thoroughly unhappy with it.  When I switched sites, I wanted to change it but didn't, only for the sake of continuity. 

Yet the longer I write, the more apt the title seems.  I am in limbo, I am stuck in Act 2.  But I am kind of bodacious.  Why, just the other day I got all dressed up for my job interview, and as I passed the mirror I almost said, "Hey pretty lady, what's your sign?"  (Okay, no, that's not really the kind of bodacious I mean, but really, I looked pretty good.)

Here I am, documenting that things are happening in my life, no matter how tedious it can be sometimes.  Limbo sucks, but it doesn't totally suck.  And as I look back upon my site, I can see that for every time I wrote something down, there was something happening to write about.  Some of it was bad, some of it was terrible, but some good things crept in, too.  And something good will happen again.

Sometimes I need a reminder like that to get me out of my self-pitying rut, to relieve just a little of that stuck-in-neutral pressure.  And as I read, I realize that I am just dying to know what happens next.  What will become of our Heroine?  The next page is blank, but there is a next page. 

A resolution that would make my English teachers proud will come.  There will be a denouement, and just maybe, a happy ending.  But not quite yet.

She paused, in every direction lay a fog so thick she felt it cling to her.  She continued straight into the grayness with both trepidation and determination.  As she pushed forward, the fog began to lift.  And what she saw amazed her...

Disaster Magnet

Last week, I, Rae, sat down at the very computer at which I am now sitting, and wrote this:

My spirits are high.  I feel like I am finally making some progress in life.  I feel that I may be dangerously close to becoming, [gasp], a Pollyanna.

And at the time, it really seemed like I was starting to be sunshiney and carefree.  I had a very promising job interview scheduled, we were making progress on our house search, and I was enjoying a much needed break from all things chemo.  It was good.

Then my cervix nearly exploded and gave me the cramps of a lifetime.  Then we almost bought a house I hated, which resulted in a huge blowout fight with Boyfriend and a weekend at my mother's.  Then I found out my creatinine level was higher than a stone sober, 95-pound girl on oxycontin.  Then Hank hurt his paw, requiring not only a very expensive midnight trip to the vet, but also a professional carpet cleaning, since his panicky laps around the apartment with a bleeding paw made the place look like a deleted scene from "The Shining."  And I did not feel so Pollyanna anymore.

Somewhere in a huge, futuristic control room, someone was saying, "Yes, the glitch caused Rae to have a good week, but don't worry, we fixed that.  The person responsible has been sacked." 

It's hard to appreciate the things that go right when inundated by things going so horribly wrong.  All those little victories just don't seem at all victorious anymore, they seem more like the beginnings to sentences that end with, "but at what cost?"  I try, I really try, to remember the good things, I try not to get so enveloped by the bad-ness of the present that I forget the good news of last week.

But Lord if it isn't hard.  Especially since I was a pessimist to the core long before cancer or any of this crap.  (Self-fulfilling prophecy?)  I sometimes think it was great luck that I was embittered at a young age.  I just don't know how anyone could go through this chemo roller coaster and be an optimist at the same time.  Must be exhausting. 

But at the same time, I absolutely hate hate hate the fact that people probably think I am a whiner.  Personally, I feel entitled to whine about certain things.  But when I log onto this site and compose a post, I can't help but feel that I am the editor-in-chief of The Shitty Times, Volume 154.  I wish I could be happy and funny, if for no other reason than to break up the depressing reading material for you guys.  I wish I could report some good news for a change.

But since that's not likely to happen for a while, I hope that you can bear more of whiny, bitchy me.  I promise that if you stick with me, something has got to get better eventually.  It just has to.