Out with the old....

BAM! Time to relish in another year down...another great one to come (fingers crossed). I am so very appreciative that I'm still here, to ring in another year. Despite the ups and downs, the changes, the new normals, and the new bills....at least I'm still here.

Happy new year everyone! See ya in '08

Oh that's just ridiculous.

Now. I'll admit. I tried it. And it was good. But did starbucks really need to come out with the Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha?!?
It's over 450 calories. In one drink?!?
But yea. I tried it. And it was good. So who am I to talk, right?

Num

Noone. Understands. Me.

The new normal

You know. I had cancer.
(whooooaaaaa...i know, i know, you weren't expecting that one.)
I remember a couple months ago reading in a book how alot of 'loved ones' of a person who has a chronic or life-threatening illness usually want and/or expect that person to get back to normal after treatment is done.
Or at least get back to what they knew the person as before.
And I'm sure the patient would love to. It's so difficult for others to understand, and imagine, how much you just cant' do that.
if you lose an arm, you don't just go back to the same self you were before you lost that arm. And for the most part, I'd imagine people around you understand that you are changed. permanently.
You'll never do a handstand again. You'll never juggle again. You'll never clap your hands again.
(hehehehe...alright. Now I'm just sorta being silly.)
But that being said, it's so hard to relay to someone who has not gone through what you have, why you cannot ever be the same, or go back to normal. I'm speaking more specifically of people who may not have lost an arm, but who still fought a good fight nonetheless. People who are permanently changed, just maybe not in such an outward obvious way.
your life was turned upside down and inside out, there is no more 'normal'. Thats part of the whole process of illness I think. You have to grieve for yourself, and mourn the loss of your old self. And it's quite a different thing from the sappy sob-fest pity parties you can go through when you're first diagnosed, or when you're struggling to understand a diagnosis, or when you're faced with horrible new information.
You have to grieve for yourself in knowing that, while you can and will survive this, you will never be the same.
Even if you get through treatment, and it leaves you with no physical outward side effects. Even if you're given a squeaky clean bill of health. Even if you didn't suffer all that much with whatever treatments they gave you. The reason you'll never go back to 'normal' is regardless of how much you'd like to forget that you just came face to face with your own mortality. Regardless of how much you want to act like you can pick right back up where you left off. There is always a nagging voice. The persistant anxiety of the 'what-if'. The unrelenting fear of something coming back, or of you missing some important signal.
But those around you. Those loved ones who want nothing more in the world than to see you as you were before it all started...they can't read your mind. They can't see your feelings. They have their own worries. And their own anxieties. Much of it they will probably never share with you for fear of upsetting you, or stressing you. (as if you don't obsess over it as much if not more than they do).
But they can't feel the same things that you are. So they want and hope and wait for things to go back to 'normal'. It's the best of intentions really.
And that maybe why it's so frustrating when you realize that you can't go back to 'normal'. You want it as much as they do.
I spent lots of times going back and forth, debating with myself whether I want to be one of those people who talks about, and uses, and perpetuates what they went through for ages. Whether it was just me dragging it out, and why I wasn't just back to my old self. I debated with myself why I was still affected by it, even though for all intents and purposes, it was 'over'. What was wrong with me? Why is it something I still think about on a daily...sometimes hourly basis? Shouldn't it be more and more of an afterthought every day that passes? Would people get tired of hearing about some sorta cancer-related thing from me all the time?
I had to finally make the decision that I just couldn't go on and forget about it. I am not crippled by it, but it does play a large part in my life. Even now. Now that the incisions have healed over, that follow ups have come and gone, that a routine has been settled into, it still is a major player for me every day.
So I may not ever be normal. But depending on who you ask, I never was in the first place.
And even though I won't ever be normal, I most certainly can get to the 'new normal'. The 'new normal' that includes all the ways in which I have been affected by cancer.

Bring on the Boring

I was reading through some various blogs the other day and it occured to me that maybe I'm doing this blog thing wrong.
It seems lots of people just do sort've "updates" of their daily life. I realized I don't do that. I guess I just don't find my every day life all that interesting to write about it. That then made me realize that I never really enjoyed doing that. I mean, even when attempting to keep the good ol' fashioned "diary" I wasn't very consistent. I had a hard time writing every night. Cuz...well...most the time I'm just not that interesting.
This morning. I woke up, started some coffee, went in to flush out my pouch, watched a little bit of the news, ate some honey bunches of oats with soymilk (yum?...yes. yum), showered, dressed, checked my email, gathered my things, took some coffee to go, went to turn on my car so it could warm up, and off to work i went. Got to work, parked, found my manager for the day was sick, proceeded to hang, answer calls, take peoples money, drink tea, crochet, answer questions, sit on my hands to keep em warm, b.s. with co-workers, scrounge around the internet for funny tidbits of information...til now. I sit here reciting my day.

Okay, that is dreadfully boring to me. I think its part of why when my mom, or my roomie asks me how my day was, or how was work, for the most part unless something huge and major happened, I always answer "the same ol'." Cuz it's really just more of a hassle to me to have to go through and pull out some memorable moments from a day in which is pretty routine.

So I will save you all (and myself) from the painful slow dullness of my day-to-day. But don't feel sorry for me, trust me, after the past two years of rollercoaster insanity worrying whether you'll see next fall...hehe, well, I welcome the slow dullness. Bring.It.On.

Lettin' one rip

Dear friends,
I cannot fart. The title of this blog used to be "I shall never fart again."
And I keep forgetting to do a blog as to the specifics of why I can't. But, the long and short of it is, I don't have any lower intestine left. They've removed all of the colon, rectum, and anus. Yea, i know, i didn't know it was possible to remove THAT part.
Sooooo, that has all been removed, and to take up the role of the colon, they made a "pouch" or internal resevoir if you will, from my small intestine (which you have LOTS more of than your large).
That pouch holds everything I eat, til I choose (or IT chooses...those of you that know me know who Stella is, and what she demands of me) to empty it. And why am I briefing you on all this you may ask??
Great question. (actually, not such a great question considering you're reading a blog titled I am not an asshole) BUUTTTT...I tell you this, so that questions will start to bubble up in your mind. I certainly did not think of all the ramifications of this surgery, and perhaps that's a good thing.
One thing that very quickly became obvious to me, that may not be as appreciated by everyone out there...is the ability to just rip a big ol' fart.
Hell, maybe not even a big ol' fart. Just a plain little noiseless one. Or a gurgly juicy one, or one that makes you question whether things inside you are dying. Whatever it is, just the sheer act of passing gas. My oh my what a joy that is.
Since I can no longer do this, I miss it terribly. That's not to say that I was just some huge gas-bag that you couldn't take out in public, but who was great fun at parties.
by far.
I was your typical girl. Girls never farted. Pfff...
No, I denied it everytime. I didn't speak of it. I tried to go in other rooms, or the bathroom if I needed to. And maybe my denial of this ingenious body function has lead to this sort of gaseous karma, in which it has been snatched forever from my grips. Never again to bless me with the immediate satisfaction and relief achieved only by releasing that noxious air.

At this point, again, you may be asking yourself: Why am I not only briefing you on this, but going into way too much detail about it?
A couple weekends ago, I am proud to say, for the first time in over 12 months, I finally got to fart, thanks to a wonderful gift from my rockin' Colondar model co-hort, (miss april) Paula Ries.
You cannot begin to know how excited this gift made me.
but in order to attempt to illustrate my exuberance....
Yes...FLARP! fart in a jar. Noise putty. Now granted, this itty bitty jar of gassy fun, could have a bit more bass and resonance to it, but when you haven't let one loose in over a year, anything will do.
it's basically like silly putty, and you just push it into the jar and it makes varying fartlike noises.

Now. Important lessons I have learned from this little jar of farts....

1) Surgeons and Oncologists do NOT appreciate when you make fart noises during their seminars and lectures. Even if it IS at a colon cancer-related event. pfff...

2) Farting noises will not force your cab driver to turn off the ungodly icey and unnecessary air conditioner.

3) When you haven't farted in over a year...you have a lot of catching up to do. Allow yourself plenty of uninterrupted quality fart-time to satisfy your gas-passed deprived soul.

4) Fart jar putty does not come out of tableclothes so well.

Well, I'm not sure why I felt so compelled to share my little jar of joy with you anonymous folk of the internet, but...in the very odd and strange event you find yourself knowing someone who's fart-deprived, you have just found your answer. FLARP!

In order to make the perfect man...

You know, the man that every woman thinks she wants, the man that is sensitive and understanding. He shares his emotions, and isn't afraid to cry.

In order to make that perfect man..or maybe in order to make all men into the men women say they want, they should all go through cancer.

Or at least that is what me, and a fellow cancer-person have decided. But really it just got me thinking about how dealing with something as traumatic as cancer affects genders differently. I don't want to delve further into how different types of cancers affect different genders...I'd be writing endless dissertations on it at that point.
But its interesting to me if I take the time to look at how I think I've been affected, or changed as a person, and what that means for me. And how a guy at my age with the same type of cancer has been affected and/or changed.
Inevitably, you HAVE to be changed by the experience of being diagnosed, treated, and surviving something like cancer, in any form. You just have to. I don't think anyone will argue that point.
But HOW it affects you...and this can be a multi-faceted aspect of course. The joke between us was that men (this is a hugely broad assumption and generalization of course) become more 'in touch' with their emotions, and are alot more sensitive to the world around them and their loved ones. Sssooooooo, isn't that what most women say that want in a man? Luckily, I do not have to go seek this. I have what I want. BUT! If you're in the market for that strong sensitive man, boogie yourself on down to a cancer support group and get to flirting ladies!

(Disclaimer: the views conveyed in this message do not necessarily reflect the ideals and beliefs of the author. meant purely as philosophical cancer b.s.'ing with other like-minded good sense of humor having individuals)

(and p.s. I don't think all men are the same, and know full well there are LOTS of exceptions to those 'male stereotypes. I've been blessed enough to meet said exceptions)

You don't know

I am no stronger than you.

I am no braver than you.

I am no more inspirational than you.

I am not those things. I am only what you see in me.

I am scared. every minute. of every day. day in. and day out.

If you wake up with your house on fire, your bedroom engulfed in flames. Do you just lay there on your bed and say "Ah well. I gave it a good run. Might as well just lay here and kiss it all good by."

No.

You get the hell out of there. You run, scramble, lunge, bolt for the door. You gasp for air, you do anything you can to cool your singed skin. You get out. You lick your wounds. You look back and think "Good God, I got myself out of THAT?!?"

So why is what I did, or what I went through any different?

You know what's different? Jealousy. Jealousy takes on a whole new meaning. Everyone is jealous. It's in human nature. Envious, Jealous, whichever you want to refer to it as, in some form or another, everyone, in some stage, has it.

If I had a dime for every time in the past I wished something about me, or my life was different/better/bigger/nicer/ I'd probably not be in so much debt right now.

But that was before.

NOW? Now there's jealousy and envy. But it's much more broad. Now, if I had a dime for every time I wished I was just fucking normal...just plain as plain can be....just blend into the background nondescript average jane? Gggooooooooooddddamn I'd be a ga-fuckin-zillionaire.

I hate to sound rude. But you just don't know.

Afterglow

The setting: Lake George, Adirondack Mtns

You guys.
you guys have no idea.
I am coming down from a high.
I spent a whirlwind weekend tucked away in the mountains.
and fell in love with 18 people and one dog whom I'd never met previously.
We came from all over the country.
Backgrounds as different as can be.
Spanning the spectrum in age, and demographic, but all with one uniting theme.
These people (even the dog) were all touched in some way by the bastardspawn that is colon cancer.
but that almost became 'besides the point'.
They were some of the rockin-est, life loving-est, sick twisted sense of humor-est, bread bakin-est group of folk I've had the pleasure to call myself a part of.
And after the weekend was all said and done, we'd laughed together, built butt pyramids together, jumped off docks into gorgeous icy lakes together, sang together, stripped down and twirled ourselves in nothing but blue satin fabric together, branded ourselves together, learned new uses for tubesocks and strawberry shortcakes together, made mudslides, truffles, and focaccia together, and finally created a breathtaking 12 pages of iconic photographic goodness together.

I would go into detail about how each and every person i met that weekend will be with me forever, but it would just not do it justice. I would elaborate on why that weekend provided a sense of meaning and validity to the past year and a half of my life, but you wouldn't get a true understanding. I would hypothesize, metaphor-ize, personify-ze, analyze, and/or philosophize (typos intended to allow for greater literary impact ;) how this weekend with strangers who are now family, was one of the best things I've done with myself. but it just wouldn't even break the surface.

Now the glow is fading. The tattoo has scabbed over and healed. My impromptu bang trim has grown out a bit. The high is wearing off, but the memories are filed nicely away for easy access on those "I really need a smile" days.

Thanks Colondar. as I've said before. You rawk my world.

Colon Buddies

only some of the Beautiful Ones

Hier kom ik

So off I go into the wild blue yonder!

Glad to say that my mom, my two best friends, and I are leaving this afternoon for an 8 day stay in amsterdam.

Gotta flat rented for the week:
I'm TOO ready for a vacation. Insurance worriers be damned!

Europe here I come

Defeated

I think for the most part I've tried to refrain from posting on here when I'm really angry or upset about something.
I figure then it'll just sound like me whining. And even though my nickname as a child used to be "Becca-Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneeerrrrrrr", I really hate whining.
When I do it, I hate the sound of it coming out of my mouth. So I've attempted to not come on here and gripe like it's my fourth grade journal.

But I'm just in about the foulest mood you could ever imagine right now. There isn't much else to do BUT whine in this instance.

Here's the scenario. I don't have health insurance. I had COBRA insurance from my former employer before getting diagnosed. It was crappy crappy coverage, but it was still coverage. However, COBRA ran out in February (coincidently just about when I finished chemotherapy. although that didn't really matter much b/c the COBRA benefits had been maxed out for months prior to that).

I cannot NOT have insurance. I need follow up PETscans and Upper Endoscopies pretty much indefinitely. So it was imperative I get insurance. I can't get it through my current employer b/c I am parttime, they are non-profit, etc etc.

So I hear about this program through the state of Illinois called ICHIP (Illinois Comprehensive Health Insurance Program). If you're approved, you can get covered, with no pre-existing condition, etc etc.

I applied, and got approved. Great news right? All worries solved for now?

HA.

The premium is $425ish a month. A MONTH?!? I can BARELY make $350 a month for rent, let alone regular utility bills, cell phone bill, and we're not even looking in the direction of my more than $40,000 in student loans. Nor am I even thinking about the way more than $125,000 still remaining in medical/surgical/treatment bills.

I just don't get it. I truly just can't see a solution. I do not have this amount of money. I do not have the option for making anywhere near enough at my current job. I am struggling to find a second job, or just a whole new job all together, due to the demands and constraints of this new plumbing system I had installed. I can't seem to be able to work a normal 8 hour shift with regularity. I'm lucky that my current employer is so understanding and flexible and has been there with me through it all already.

I don't apparently qualify for Social Security, SSI, Disability, Medicaid, etc. For who knows what reason.

I just don't understand. I feel very defeated. Very discouraged.

I don't know how people do it. How am I expected to pay this? It'd be one thing if I was just a normally broke fresh out of college kid. But I don't get a fresh start on this. I get to be held back by a year of treatment and surgery, barely able to work, and of course incruing massive debt well beyond even the most well established persons income. (let alone that I was not well established previously)

You always hear how a medical crisis just shatters people, not merely emotionally and psychologically, but financially as well. And I know the stories. But it's hard to fathom when it's you in that position. It's hard to dig yourself out of that pit of worry, anxiety, and fear. This wierd obligation I have. I've never imagined the statement "stuck between a rock and a hard place" to ever be so true. though for me it's essentially a life or death kinda true.

And well. That's it. I don't even have anything more to say. I barely can muster the energy to be angry. it's just too heavy. I'd rather just sink into a corner and disappear. money, insurance, the health care industry...all be damned.

The after effects noone mentions

I know i know i know....i'mma bad bad blogger.

I've been on a itty bitty break. Sorta forgot bout writing. No real good reason. Other than maybe, trying to get back to living.

It's cool seeing all the comments on here though. Sometimes people comment and I realize I have no way to answer em back. Which is sorta sad.
I want you guys all to know I do read every comment and I'm so honored, flattered, touched, surprised, embarrassed, and humbled that anyone even reads what I have to say.

It was really cool that I got a comment on my last entry from a nurse that I had at Cleveland Clinic in September for my surgery. It feels awesome that they not only remember me, but actually got online to see how I was doing.

And for that...to anyone that I've come across in this mad journey that is cancer...I'm doing well. I think about lots of the nurses and fellows and doctors I've come in contact with often. Believe it or not.

I remember one nurse (or nurse aid?) at cleveland clinic who sat in my room when my mom was out doing errands, and talked to me for the longest time about her sister, and their quest to decorate her sisters house by going to every yard sale they could find.

And I remember the Radiation Therapist who would buy at least 2 of my "CANCER SUCKS" bracelets every time she saw me (and seeing as I was there mon-fri for five weeks straight...that's alot of bracelets). She single-handedly outfitted almost every person working in radiation and the CT Scan dept.

And I remember the Stoma nurse from Cleveland emailing me months after surgery to see how I was doing, and to say how great my stoma looked.

And not even just in the medical area. From the first day I told people at work what was going on, the person that runs the cafe in my job decided there wasn't alot he could do to help me, but the one thing he could do was feed me for free the entire time I was in treatment. I didn't even realize til I came back from surgery and having not worked for two months how much of a help this was to me.

A friend who I didn't even know for too long, or too well at the time found out what was going on and singlehandedly organized, and executed an amazing classical concert as a fundraiser for me in a city that I had never lived or visited, on a school campus which I never attended, nor had any connection to.

And the Radiation Doctor who ended up leaving to a new hospital right on my last day of radiation, but made sure she was the one who saw me on my final day, and then gave me her personal cell phone number in case I had any problems later on.

A nurse that my mom works with, but whom I've never met decided her family and her would not give each other presents this christmas, but instead take money they would have bought presents with, and donated it to my fundraising.

There were so many people I crossed paths with that made the experience just a bit more bearable, and helped me continue to feel like a person rather than a number or a disease. This teeny tiny blog entry doesn't touch on even half. I wish I could detail out for you all how many amazing things that have happened due to such an awful diagnosis.
I felt I needed to take a sec to reflect on some of the more positive notes and all the great people I'm lucky enough to have in my life. Since I'm not in the greatest of moods right now, and my next entry will probably be a wwwwwhhhoooooollllleeee lot more negative.

but first...sleep is an order.

obrigado gentes

The Becca Corp....Now serving your area.

Yep, that's right.
I am your friendly neighborhood one stop cancer info shop.

okay, okay. I'll explain. It would seem that nowdays, whenever anyone I know has another brush with cancer, they immediately think of me.

I have gotten many a call, or email which inevitably begin with "My niece has been diagnosed with...." and usually somewhere in there will be a mention of "...and if you could tell me where I can get info about it..." or "...if you could talk with them about it..."

Now, this isn't necessarily a bad thing. I am usually quite honored that people think of me when they're trying to make sense of a senseless situation. It's flattering to be in a position where people respect your knowledge, and want your help.

The only drawback is...well...I can't always help these people. I guess before I was diagnosed, I wouldn't have known that all cancer is really inherently different. Of course, it's all cancer. And it's all bad. But it's almost like...(and I know, this is a pretty trivial comparison) allergies. You can have allergies to food, or to a substance, or to an element, or animal. But all those allergies need different remedies or treatments. What works for someone who's allergic to peanuts won't necessarily work for someone who's allergic to cats.

When someone tells me they're best friends little brother was just diagnosed with Luekemia. Well...I honestly know little to nothing about luekemia. I can tell them where I went for information. But I doubt that www.colonclub.com or www.uoaa.org would really be of help for a 12 year old with luekemia.

I have more general resources that I can pass on. And there are certain emotional states that are relatable to ALL major illnesses. I can certainly talk to someone about fear and anxiety, and all that good stuff. Body image issues, fertility, side effects...to a degree I can help someone come to terms with most of those topics. But as for cancer specific info. unfortunately, you sorta have to do that on your own.

So in a way, I feel good being that source of information for people. I hate when I can't be of help to someone. I usually do my best. But it's a strange phenomenon when you go from being just a regular every day joe (er...jane) to being that one person to go to for cancer info. I've suddenly become an expert in a field I never ever wanted to be...survivorship.

I suppose I'll wear the title with pride. I mean...hell, lord knows I paid for it (literally and figuratively). I just hope I can do it justice and when someone else who is in the same place I was in a year ago today...I'll be able to help.

And in the category of T.M.I.:

I know some of you may not want to see. But then again, I have no shame. And for those of you that are curious:
So that is it. The new diggs. See, tain't so bad to see. Nothing all bloody and gorey. Nothing too disgusting. Just a teeny little hole in my stomach. Big whoop.
The nurse at Cleveland clinic actually said "Wow, it's so tiny. You know what it looks like? It looks like a cigarette burn."
Not sure if that was something good or bad. But sooner or later, when I have more time, I'll go ahead and write a detailed account of my surgeries, and my new plumbing. For any who may be interested. Since, I guess, if you don't know me, a picture of a plastic tube coming out of my stomach might seem a bit strange. So fear not, if you are confused, just check back in, and I shall clarify for you.
Til then..

Tchau minha querida's!

The gift of....Cancer?

Those of you who actually know me in person (or as in person as you can get on, say, email or aim) know that for the most part, I'm a cynical person. I've got a pretty sarcastic and dry sense of humor, and am just kinda...well, sardonic.
That being said, what with being diagnosed with a deadly condition and all, lots of people have either pointed out to me, or I've read, that you grow to appreciate everything so much more after diagnosis.
You really begin to realize how relevant the phrase "Life is Short" is, and appreciate life in ways others simply cannot.
Now, I'm not saying that is not the case. I certainly know when to stop and acknowledge those moments when I'm truly enjoying life. Those times when you're just feeling good, not thinking in the future and just in the moment.
But I was watching some show on TLC titled (and I kid you not) "The Man Whose Arms Exploded". It was about Bodybuilders and steroids, but specifically followed some guy who had the biggest biceps in the world.Guinness Book winner, and a true freak (his own words, not mine).

So they are interviewing this dude about how he got so big, and was on so many drugs that he gave himself an infection from a bad needle, and developed a hematoma in his arm. So he tried to 'fix' it on his own by poking at it trying to drain it. Needless to say, it didn't work.
Anywho, my point in telling you about that is...I watched as they interviewed all sorts of bodybuilders and experts about what they referred to as "bigarexia". Sorta the anti-anorexia. The compulsion of these men to want to be bigger and bigger regardless of how they do it.

And I started getting really annoyed.

Why?
Because of the audacity of people with perfectly healthy working bodies to subject it to dangerous substances purely for vanities sake. Hell, here I am happy to be alive, and working on getting over having my abdomen sliced open and an asshole placed on my belly. And YOU'RE pumping yourself full of steroids for the hell of it?!?

It just got me thinking about all of these silly things people do to themselves in general. Plastic surgery, cosmetic surgery, body modification, etc. And all for what? Vanity? The need to fill some void in your life? Low self esteem? Daddy issues??

I suppose I'm very happy that I can adjust so easily. But that's not to say that, if given the choice I wouldn't take the option of just having a normal body with no ill treatment side effects, no surgeries, no weird new orifaces. And the fact that there are aaaaalllll these people who are seemingly ignorant and unappreciative of the simple joy of having a plain ol' normal everyday body...really grates my nerves.

So cancer should basically wake you up to life, and how good it is and can be (goes without saying it also shows you how horrid it can be). But I guess it gives you alot of other perspectives on life, and silly humans. I'll have to start documenting every "gift" this bastard cancer has blessed me with. Starting with the super-human ability to recognize how ridiculous our vanity can get....wait, can that be considered a gift?

The nitty gritty

First off...a big ol' HOOOOOOO-RAAAAAHHHH!!!! is an order, since at this very moment in time I am finishing up my VERY...LAST....CHEMO treatment!!!
whoooooooooo!!!

(can i get a Whooo? c'mon....whooooo!)

I was supposed to get it on tuesday. When I went in my white blood cell count was dangerously low. (1.0....a normal person is more around 11-14 range). They want you to have at least a 3.0 in order to get treatment.
So they gave me a shot to boost it (lovely Neuprogen). And I was to come back the next day to see how it worked.
The next day...it only went up to 1.3 (er? the last time my counts were so low and I got a shot, the next day it shot up to 10.6! I was sorely disappointed.) Ssooooo, they gave me another shot of Neuprogen. And told me to come back the next day.
So now it's thursday, I come back in, get my blood tested. It went up to 2.9. Now, remember, I said they want you to be at least 3.0 to get treatment. But my oncologist said I could go ahead and get it that day b/c he was afraid I wouldn't come back if he told me to wait til next week (oh he knows me so well...cuz I damn sure wouldn't!)
They just tapered back the dose of Oxaliplatin (the main biggie drug I get over the course of two days) to 80% strength, and I'll have to go back on tuesday to get my blood tested and make sure the counts don't drop too low after getting disconnected.
If they are low, well...it's more Neuprogen for me...but I DON'T CAAAARRREEEE!!! Cuz it's my last ooonnnneeee!!!
(heh, note the joy in all my exaggerated words)

Anywho, I thought maybe I'd share some pics with you guys. You know, a little taste of my life.

First up, the needle jammed in my port and all taped up:

(purty, ain't it? it's under the little yellow butterfly needle)

And here, my lovely chemo-ipod...and no, it doesn't hold nearly as many mp3's as my regular ipod:(hehehehe, don't you just LOVE the thrilled expression on my face? I <3 chemo so much.)


Soooo, tomorrow (saturday) I should be going in to get disconnected from my ipod. I shall update upon that event happening.

wheeee!

The lurker is beat at her own game

Drats! Just when I'm starting to have fun eavesdropping on odd bathroom conversations, I'm discovered!
By a child nonetheless...those crafty youngin's.
The bathroom convo from today:

Young Girl: LalaLAAAAAA (singing in the stall rather operatically.)
Mother: (from outside the bathroom) Marisol ....(something in spanish I don't understand).
Young Girl: (sigh) Oohhkay.
(I am trying to be very quiet. The girl is in the next stall from me. After several seconds...)
Young Girl: Is someone there?
Me: ....yea...
Young Girl: How old are you?
Me: ....26....
Young Girl: Oohhh...in college I see (which sounds pretty funny. Very wise sounding for an 8 year old)
Me: Nope. I'm well out of college.
Young Girl: (sighs again) Aw...I'm wrong again. Ah well...
Me (giggles)
Young Girl: (flushes) Bbyyyeee girl in the bathroom!
Me: Uh, see ya.

Young Girl: (now outside the bathroom) Mama..I made a new friend in there....



hehehehehe.....only me. Only I can make friends with an 8 year old girl in a bathroom stall without ever seeing her.

Disappointment

I just felt impelled to inform you all that Berry Rice Krispies do not deliver near the delicious-ness that I desired.

The Lurker

It seems these days I get to enjoy lots of quality time in the bathroom. And some of this glorious leisure time is spent in public bathrooms, much to my dismay.
In an attempt to appease myself that I have to be stuck in a bathroom so much, I've taken to really enjoying the random snippets of conversations (or rather just interactions) I overhear while stuck in a stall.
I feel very voyeuristic in these moments. Since most the time I'm in there for a good half an hour or so, many people come and go and never even know I'm there (I'm very good at being very quiet). So just be aware...be mindful of what you say when you think noone's listening. It just may end up on a blog about some girls colon ;)
So now...for my first installment of "strange bathroom chatter"!

Mother: Hurry up honey, mommy has to go REAL bad.
Daughter: Kay momma. Hey! look how yellow it is. The mailman's was green. And the firemans was orange. Mine is so yellow! Why was their's different?
Mother: Food coloring baby, now hurry up, mommy REALLY has to go...

Woman: (on cell phone, in stall) Hello?? You're fuckin calling me now? Look, I'm...I'm taking a shit. You're annoying the hell outta me. What? I dunno. Whitehouse or something. I'm hanging up.

Woman #1: (opening bathroom door) Hello?
Woman #2 (ironic funny pun in there somewhere): Yes, I'm here.
Woman #1: Things moving along okay in there?
Woman #2: Yea, slowly but surely

Teen Girl #1: Sarah, oh my god. I'm locked in!
Teen Girl #2: Um..well hold on, I'm almost done.
Teen Girl #1: (frantically jiggling lock) Ooohhh my ggooooooddd! Noooo....I'm stuuuuucck!
Teen Girl #2: Just hold on! It's no big deal.
Teen Girl #1: That's it. I'm crawling. I can fit...

Dad: (from outside bathroom door) Madison? Be sure to untie her pants.
Madison: Ew Daddy, the strings are sticky.

More to come!

I do not want to be defined by poop

You ever get tired of hearing someone complain? I have friends that will just go on and on and on about their lack of relationship luck, or career luck, or family luck...or hell, even bad luck with pop tarts (yes, pop tarts.)
I'm a good listener, when i wanna be. But obviously you can get tired of listening to someone whine eventually. Generally I don't say anything, I figure, people gotta vent, they gotta vent. And I enjoy that I can give someone that freedom to do just that. No matter how trivial an issue it may be. (Yes, you may really really really just HATE Rachel Ray and want to drop kick her in the neck. And sometimes you just need to let that out)
I've started to aggravate myself these days though. I'm actually sick of hearing myself complain. And complain about what, you may ask?
Shit.
I'm tired of talking about what I can do to make going to the bathroom easier. Or faster. And those of you who know what kinda plumbing I'm working with these days...know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't wanna hear it. I hate how at least once a day I end up growling at this hole in my stomach and muttering "just go in you sunnuvabitch...WOOOORRRRK!" I know noone in their right mind is gonna tell me to quite complaining. I think I've pretty much earned my whining rights for the year by now. probably longer. And I think my knee jerk reaction to someone telling me to quit my whining would be to of course, dropkick them in the neck. (well, when i am capable of dropkicking again, naturally).
But me myself, I'M tired of it. I do not want to be defined by my bathroom habits and quality of my poop.
AAALLLTHOUGH...if i HAD to be judged on my poop...I must say, it's pretty decent poop. Nice uniform texture and consistency. And yes it may not ever actually be in the form of a turd (sorry, no Mr. Hanky's here) it is actually quite spectacular. But I digress.
I'm just not too keen on being a slave to my toilet. Or rather, My catheter. I want to be more concerned with perfecting my pop tart toasting skills. Or perhaps updating my myspace page? Now THAT is something worthy of being obsessive over.
(and now i shall plug my myspace page for all you curious spectators: ta-da)

While I had not come up with any New Years Resolutions (lose weight?? HA, Chemo handled that one for me. Thanks). I think I'll change my mind.

My new years resolution? (albeit a bit late)...

Do not let shit rule my life!!!!

Aaaaahhhhh yes. Feels good to say it loud and proud.

So while I will of course continue to talk about my ass, and my poop. I must also enlighten the masses to my other really really grand qualities. Like my ability to contort my mug into magnificently unflattering faces:











Feliz Novo Ano!