Limbodacious

I'm 22 for a Moment *

* Boy, I was worried that song would be out of vogue before I got to use it as a post title, but luckily, a credit card company started using it in their commercials just as it started to fade off the radio.  Crisis averted.  (Although, it would have been okay, because I had planned a backup title, "My Obligatory Crap-Ass Birthday Post, Into Which I Put No Time or Effort."  Now that I think about it, the backup title seems to be more appropriate.)

Yes, my birthday approacheth.   Well, birthdays, because there is the real one on Sunday, and then today, the phoney baloney one I have told people is my birthday for the past four years.  More on that complex later.

I feel like I should be saying things like "closing a chapter" or "starting fresh," but in reality I feel, well, nothing.  Not a damn thing.   No present-guessing jitters, no wondering who will call me at midnight.  I didn't even realize the day was coming up until someone mentioned it to me a few days ago.  Maybe it's because 22 doesn't bring you any more societal privileges like 18 or 21 did.  Maybe it's because it has just been a stressful bummer of a week.  Or maybe it's because by acknowledging my birthday, I would have to acknowledge the fact that I didn't accomplish anything in Year 21 besides merely staying alive, and if I had suddenly ceased to exist at some point during Year 21, the world would probably not have noticed.  Eerily similar to Year 20.

I'm sure 22 is nice, but I have a sinking feeling that 22 without dialysis and arthritis and a fistful of drugs every morning would be even nicer.  A more optimistic person would probably concentrate on the fact that I at least made it to 22, and that I am alive to see this day.  But I am not a more optimistic person, and as another famous song says, it's my party and I'll cry if I want to. 

So no birthday stuff for me this year.  No going out, no party, no presents, no nothing.  Some overly decadent ice cream and a nice long nap will suffice for 22.  And I'm the Birthday Girl so what I say goes!

(But I'm just going to put this information out there, though, not that it is relevant and not that anyone reading would be remotely interested in it... I wouldn't mind an understated pearl necklace, and if someone were to anonymously send me one, I wouldn't be offended.) 

As It Turns Out, You CAN Take the Honky-Tonk Out of the Girl

It hit me today.  I am in remission.  The Universe is balancing out.  Life is good.

I am ashamed to admit that the end of my funk was not precipitated by a spiritual revelation, the wise words of a close friend, or the Heavens opening up and an angelic being shouting "Get over yourself!"  It was because of a shopping trip. 

I was sad, and lonely, and feeling isolated, devoid of purpose or direction.  But then.  Then, there was THE HUGEST BED BATH & BEYOND IN THE WORLD.  It has two floors, people!  When they say & BEYOND, they really mean it.  And I bought a cordless rechargeable sweeper-vac for 40% off, which if you're like me, and I am, is quite the gratifying purchase.

The trip didn't start out well.  The confusion started over what, in fact, constitutes a "mall."  For a small-town girl like me, a mall is a maximum of five stores arranged in a row, all with separate entrances from the outside.  Here in the big, bad city, "malls" masquerade themselves as the type of strip-mall I am accustomed to, with secret passages into the Conglomo-Mall which contains the store that you are actually looking for.  I felt a little ridiculous, passing the same shopping center eight times knowing that the store just had to be in there, not realizing that behind the facade there lies a whole other hidden group of stores.  I was pissed off, and about to give up, and then over the horizon, like a Phoenix from my angst, rose the Hugest Bed Bath & Beyond In the World. 

When I got inside, I quickly forgot my hippocampic frustration, as I was mesmerized by the gleam of high-tech toasters and the lushness of very, very expensive drapes.  Ah, the tears are welling up in my eyes just remembering it.  I wandered around the huge expansiveness for much longer than the errand required, and I felt my soul refreshed.  As I went back to my car, I noticed the rest of the shoppes (the upscale nature of the mall necessitates the superfluous -pe), which I had missed earlier in my frantic search for BB&B.  Beautiful shoes, high-fashion evening wear, quirky cafes, home furnishings fit for Architectural Digest.  I thought to myself, I love this place.

In my short foray into city life, I have learned this simple equation:  Trendiness of neighborhood = (Number of gay men + Number of cute young girls in designer track suits jogging in tandem) x Number of restaurant names Rae cannot pronounce.  This neighborhood scored about 100 million trillion.  I swore off my small-town roots right then and there, because this place rocks.  As I stood calculating the risk of arrest if I never went home and just squatted there in the mall parking lot, and rationalizing that it's a victimless crime, after all, I realized that I already live here.  I. Live. HERE. 

Once I acknowledged that wholly awesome fact, the floodgates opened.  We bought a house, and I love it to bits.  I have a boyfriend who loves me.  I have three, count 'em three, dogs that guarantee hilarity every day.   I live in a great neighborhood that is safe and fun and has shoppes instead of plain old stores.  I have weathered the struggle of my life, risen like an Enormous Bed Bath & Beyond from the ashes, and I can now gleefully rejoice in sweeper-vacs and all the other simple pleasures that I have missed out on for so long. 

Life is pretty fucking great when you look at it like that.

P.S.  Since Louise is such a braggart these days, I will show you this shoppe to make her jealous for a change.  Take that.

Sorry Internet, I Just Can't Get It Up

The Funk That Would Not Die rages on.  I feel bad, because I usually post a lot, and I like updating frequently.  But damn if I just can't get it together to post anything of interest.

First, I was going to talk about Tarceva, the maintenance chemo that sounds like a mid-90's Toyota model (hopefully it is not a lemon), but frankly, the whole business is very boring.  Then I had a smashing piece on the stray dog we found, and how having three dogs is like watching a real-time soap opera in your living room.  I probably will still do that, since it allows for gratuitous cute-dog photo opportunities, but I am not feeling shecky enough quite yet.  Then I had a post about how my appetite is coming back, how much I love marbled Colby-Jack cheese (just how WAS I living without the cheese that guarantees not one but TWO delicious varieties in every bite?) and my almost pregnancy-like cravings after a year and a half of dry cereal and crackers (Dr. Atkins' last act before his death was to name me the Antichrist), but let's face it, not even I can make cheese interesting. 

So because of my utter lack of motivation, and because my laptop and Typepad have combined to form the Fuckup Alliance, all I can come up with is this interesting link.  Well, interesting if you are interested in autoimmune diseases, which I am.  I know that at least Noelle will read it, and that is good enough for me, right now. 

And with that, I slink back to my couch to wallow and complain.  I shall return when (mental) conditions improve.

Installment Infinity of Non-Cancer Distraction Talk

Well, sort of.  Tomorrow (well, later today I guess) is the big day.  I anticipate one of two scenarios:

1.  I get bad news from the doctor, spend all weekend in a blubbering heap surrounded by my neatly packed boxes, wailing, "Oh, Zeus!" and totally blow off moving.

2.  I get good news from the doctor, go on a three-day cheesecake and Chinese food ecstasy bend, and totally blow off moving.

So we shall see.

The non-cancer-centric part of my brain (approximately .001%) is thinking about competition in relationships.  Is there a winner and a loser when two people break up?

My ex-boyfriend called me tonight to tell me he saw my dad.  He said this like it was a total coincidence, but he knowingly went into the dining establishment that my dad owns, so something tells me it was a little more deliberate than he let on.  Oh, and he brought his new girlfriend.  Of course.

So I handle this information like any mature, reasonable, and civil person would.  I faked a domestic emergency to hang up on him quickly and call my dad for the scoop (Get it?  He owns an ice cream shop!  Har har!).  "Is his new girlfriend prettier than me, Daddy?"

My dad, because he is awesome and completely objective, told me that she is an nasty hag, which made me feel a little better.  It's silly, really, I have a great boyfriend and we are buying a house, so if anyone is keeping score, which they aren't, I think I would be in the lead.  So who cares what my old boyfriend, whose girlfriend-of-not-very-long-at-all is not prettier than me, thinks?

I feel ridiculous.  My ex and I have been broken up for roughly forever now, and we have managed to cultivate a civil friendship that in no way resembles our tumultuous four-year relationship.  We have moved on.  So why does it bug me that he is out gallivanting with his new gal and introducing her to my father?  (I mean, besides the fact that it is kind of a weird thing to do. )

Are there certain people that are just destined to get under your skin forever, even after the romantic feelings have faded?  Why do I feel like we are in a race?  Am I just a shallow, immature person?

And most importantly, why did Radiology have to be backed up on the day I was to receive the most important news of my life so I have all this time to worry about these inane things??

I Forget, Are Strange Men Scaling Your Building before Dawn Good or Bad Luck?

Today I was awoken at a frighteningly early hour by the familiar sound of Hank barking.  Normally he barks at the front door, but today his ire was directed at the balcony door.  I went over to show him see, there is no one out there, and when I pointed outside HOLY FUCKING SHIT THERE ARE THREE MEN ON MY BALCONY PAINTING MY DOOR AND WHAT THE FUCK TIME IS IT ANYWAY?

I have to say that is a less than delightful way to start your day.  Especially today.  Today marks a year and a half since my diagnosis.  Fuuuuuck.  I knew it was coming, but I thought the way to deal with it would reveal itself when the time came.  Apparently the way to deal with it is to get the ever-loving shit scared out of me before my morning Pepsi.  Why not?

One of the painters said, "Sorry to scare you, Miss.  By the way, the other crew can see into your bedroom window, so you might want to close your blinds."

And I think I will take his advice.  Today I will close my blinds, hide from the world, and not reappear until tomorrow morning. 

Since You Asked, and Goddamn Did a Lot of You Ask

My darling readers are nothing if not curious.

What is the meaning of "Eat Roast Beef", you ask?  Well, writing my letters with a pseudonym is my small way of honoring Don Novello, a.k.a. Father Guido Sarducci (Vatican gossip columnist), a.k.a. Lazlo Toth (Concerned letter-writing citizen), a.k.a Quite Possibly the Funniest Person on Earth, Ever.  Truly, any semblance of humor I now possess is a direct result of being tied down as an impressionable youth and forced to watch reruns of SCTV for weeks on end.  It wasn't until I was 15 that I realized there were, in fact, TV shows and films made after 1982.  Thanks, Dad.

In order to accurately explain the definition and origin of my nickname "Eat Roast Beef," I would have to divulge some very personal information, including my full name and my first-grade urinary habits.  So in other words, don't ask.  Sorry to keep you hanging.

But I will share this little nugget of knowledge with you.  Go buy Don Novello's "The Lazlo Letters."   It will probably only cost you like five bucks since it is so old, and I promise that you will pee your pants with laughter.  You can share the book with your friends without telling them I recommended it, so you can look uber-cool.  (And you will.)

So there you have it.  Now quit emailing me.  Well, about the nickname that is.

Bullshitting Your Way Through an Existential Crisis 101

Luckily for you, I can hardly stop my hands from typing post after post that is chock full of thought and content.  Unluckily for me, it's because I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  I can see the classic signs of a woman unhinged in my daily behavior:

1.  I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed every inch of the 1,000 square feet of floorspace in the apartment.  With a sponge.  Did I mention it's all carpeted?

2.  I have been yelling increasingly ludicrous things at Boyfriend, like "Oh, poor baby had to take TWO DAYS of antibiotics!  CRY ME A RIVER, Sissy Boy!!" and "You're packing colognes and notebooks in the same box?  Oh, of course it wouldn't make any difference to YOU since YOU won't be the one running around to every single room in the house just to unpack ONE BOX!!  And why do you have this Axe Body Spray shit anyway, don't you know their commercials are DEGRADING TO WOMEN??"

(And although I do think their commercials are in poor taste, I think my real beef with Axe is the time someone taped the dispenser button of a bottle down and threw it into my dorm room, causing me to dry-heave constantly the whole rest of the semester.  AND KEVIN EVEN THOUGH I KNOW YOU'RE NOT READING THIS, I HAVE NEVER FORGIVEN YOU AND THAT'S WHY I STOOD YOU UP AT YOUR STUPID SEMI-FORMAL, YOU ASSHOLE.)

3.  I have packed and repacked the dishes three times, because I was sure the way they were packed was "unsafe."

4.  Even though I have "exhausted my unemployment benefits," I keep buying things.  Like these (And yes, if you were wondering, I DO have freakishly small size 5 feet).  And two of these (Guess how much they cost!  C'mon GUESS!  $10 each!!  I am the badassest bargain shopper EVER).

5.  I have written probably nine or ten posts all trying to "work through" some issue, because God knows we don't want the same old fucked-up personality in the sparkling new house.  Apparently I do all my smart thinkin' while hyperventilating.

5.  I have taken to wearing a wife-beater (What is the real name of these shirts?  I hate saying wife-beater, but I don't know what else to call them.  Anyone?) and my USAF-issue camos on all my errands, to keep people from talking to me.  (This works, by the way, in case you are looking to bolster your own misanthropic street cred.  And did I mention I took the personality test Noelle mentioned, and my type was the "Spiteful Loner"?  Oh, how true.)

6.  My abuse of parenthetical remarks has reached epic proportions.

Why all the zany behavior, you ask?  Well, um... um... well... I don't know exactly.  I just feel on edge about everything right now, I am having a strong reaction to all the change in my life. 

Let me state for the record that I do not handle change well.   I can admit that.  It's one of my Big Character Flaws.  And there is a whole hell of a lot of change going on right now.  I am on the cusp of buying a house, living in a new city, trying to rejoin the workforce, finding out if Skronk worked. 

I am using the terms "on the verge", "on edge" and "on the cusp" deliberately.  Because that's exactly how I feel, as if I was in a car half-dangling off the side of a cliff, and if so much as my cell phone falls into the back seat, the entire balance will be thrown off and I will plummet to my fiery demise. 

Yes, that's right, I said "fiery demise."  You might find that an odd choice of words, since most (all) of these changes are GOOD changes.  I thought that I wouldn't be so neurotic and irritable when things were shifting toward the better.  But apparently, change is change, and this in-between waiting phase makes my skin go white and clammy.  It is this feeling of uncertainty that has been slowing eroding my common sense and unwavering poise. 

And just so you know, I am aware that I'm an asshole for complaining about a bunch of good events.  I really am excited about all the things coming up, and once we move I will be totally fine.  It's just my nature to freak out when things are changing and up in the air.   

So please, enjoy what will assuredly be a week of soul-searching, heart-wrenching posts... or at the very least an exclusive, up-close look at my swift decline in soundness of mind.

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. 

Bummer

Silence = shitty.  I am so over being deaf.

New Typepad designs = awesome.  Good choice, Louise.  Except I already have some time/money invested in a plan which revolves around my current design.  Day late and a dollar short.  That's not really the right saying, I know, see the next item.  (Side note to Catherine who is probably reading this: But I am still so excited about my upcoming new look!  Yay!)

Vertigo = unbearable.  Lots of falling.  Please tell the world to stop moving.

July 4th = Boyfriend's birthday.  Say something nice to him.

July = total bummer month.  The 12th will make it a year since high-dose, year and a half since dx.  Fuck.

Surgery = bumped up due to severity of vertigo.  Sunday it is.  See what happens Mr. ENT?  Make me wait, and I WILL ruin your holiday weekend. 

Plan to write something upbeat before surgery = not happening.

Please pray, meditate, light a candle, sacrifice a goat, or whatever it is you do.  I don't want to be deaf.