A Pain in the Journal

My tongue hurts. When I stretch it out as far as it will go, that little connecting part on the bottom hurts like John Cena’s mom. I assume it’s blood poisoning because the only other time it hurt this much was when I was partying like it was 1999. It was bourbon, not tequimo – and it was 2015. Who’d thought George Orwell, David Bowie and Prince would be so off?

I wondered if I should tell my doctor. It was his idea that I keep a journal to record every pain, mutation, and morphing that occurs. At my check up, I was prepared to say, “my tongue kills me when I do this”, while I stuck my tongue out, but my youngest son has taken to talking like that normally and it annoys the shit out of me. It’s no surprise he got it off an “Annoying Orange” Youtube video because that’s what he does – watch highly irritable shenanigans and copies them until you’re ready to strangle fruit.

Thank goodness I have the juicer to take out my aggression on produce in a pro-active manner.

So instead, I mentioned to the doctor that my fingertips were going bald. Added to my depleting hair, eczema is one of those “expected” side effects. Not only is it painful, but my stupid iPhone won’t recognize my thumb’s touch ID anymore. I get a text and wind up cursing my phone out when all I have to do is punch in the four numbers that escaped my memory when I’m feeling like the Hulk.

The doc tells me to use cream – not lotion, for my eczema. For some reason, I am baffled by his recommendation. It’s because I assumed that cream comes in a tub – like cold cream – the stuff every child has tasted at one point because it looks – so – edible. I’m thinking, where the heck does one find hand cream?! Then I discovered that hand cream comes in regular tube dispensers and apparently, I already had some.

I know – where have I been, right?

Obviously, I don’t read the labels thoroughly. Although lately, I couldn’t even if I tried because that’s another casualty: vision. You’d think with the gallons of carrot juice I’ve been consuming, my vision would improve. BUT NOooooo. Blurred vision is yet another side effect and I’m not Nell Carter or anything but GIMME A BREAK. Like, why can’t I be riding the subway with my chemo-fanny pack and lo’ and behold, Keanu Reeves gets up and offers me his seat? Why can’t that kind of thing happen? Because in reality, nobody gives a seat to a person with a fanny pack – not even Keanu. It’s just unfathomable. Fanny packs are so….80’s.

Speaking of 80’s, I’ve been contemplating wearing a beret for the spring. Yes – a beret. And MC Hammer pants. With an Annie Lenox pixie cut. Of course, back in the day, a pixie cut meant “possible lesbian” and that’s where the pants come in to say, “definite crazy-ass.” Actually, I wouldn’t even know where to find MC Hammer pants, much less know what tops even go with them. Come to think of it, I remember thinking they looked like giant sagging diapers if you weren’t dancing like an Egyptian in them…yeah, I’ll just stick with the beret idea.

And this is probably why the doctor hasn’t asked to actually see this “Journal of Pain” even though he was adamant about me keeping one. Who can blame him – we’re all guilty of that at some point in our life: suggesting people do this or that and feeling dumbfounded that the person was clueless-er than you to take your advice seriously. It makes you realize that there are bigger losers than yourself out there and that makes you feel happy and guilty for feeling happy at the same time…but at least that means there’s a little room to abuse some sort of substance – y’know, just to even the playing ground.

In all honesty, writing a chronicle about pain was rather a relief. Perhaps that’s what the good doctor intended. Because if I ever forget how scary it was to be unable to fart, then surviving that scare becomes meaningless and the possibility of it happening again becomes inevitable. Pain is a formidable teacher. And that’s really hard to say with your tongue sticking out between your teeth.

Share

Infusion Number Eight

It’s looking like Chemo is yet another thing that drains brains. With the brain cells I have left, I don’t recall if the doctor ever said it would be a side effect, but lately, I’ve been doing some pretty fucked up shit. For instance, I could not calculate 73 cents to save my life. I poured the change into my hand, fished out two quarters, two dimes, and just stared at the nickels and pennies – stumped. I gave up and held out the lot to the cashier and asked her to do the math. She got kind of pissed her off – probably didn’t have a clue herself.

It reminded me of this time when I was about ten, a kid named Frankie Lupo asked aloud, “I have a quarter and I have a dime, how much more do I need to make fifty cents?” Now, if Frankie was six or seven, I’d kind of understand, but he was thirteen. What was even sadder, nobody from his group of morons could answer him correctly. By the way, that’s his real name – I should Google him but I won’t – watch he turned out to be Greenspan’s number cruncher or something.

So you see what I mean about the toxicity affecting my thoughts. I can’t even stay on one subject for a single paragraph.

Originally, this post was supposed to happen at the halfway point of therapy. That would’ve been infusion number six. Yes, two cycles ago. Truthfully, it kicked my ass. The seventh was even worse. I couldn’t write about it without being super stabby, so I took it out on my husband instead. And the kitchen cabinet door, which I broke off and made him fix because it was either cabinet doors or his head that I was ready to rip off.

There are three probable causes to this brain-drain-psychosis-mode: the Chemotherapy, the medication that’s supposed to quell this maddening nausea and/or/most likely it’s my Miami Uterus. I think of it like a timeshare that’s only been rented twice and losing its market value. I can’t seem to fire the maid and tell her to stop changing the wallpaper every month, so she just – keeps – doing – it. And she’s been terribly erratic about it, like showing up two weeks late then showing up on time, sometimes doing a light job, sometimes doing a full out Spring cleaning. What kills me is, the doc said that my Miami Uterus should be shutting down during therapy, but obviously, nobody gave Uterus Maid the memo. Clearly, she hates me.

At infusion number eight, I must be in the category of Swamp Thing. Every once in a while, I detect a whiff of something strange and realize it’s me. I read about a guy who detoxed after chemo and his wife complained that he smelled like a corpse! Seriously, I have to try that. Anything that promises drawing gross stuff out of my body in the grossest way is just the cat’s meow. It’s like The Exorcist, for crying out loud – who could resist?

Yes, I did write “the cat’s meow” – because that’s how toxic monsters think. Small animals, Uterus Maids and ripping husband’s head off (I’m sorry, honey). Maybe I should consider trying that “medical” marijuana, huh.

For the record, I am adopting every natural cancer fighting regimen anyone bothers to tell me about. Chomping on apricot kernels, terrorizing fresh beets and carrots through a juicer mafia-style, popping vitamins as if they were prescribed by Michael Jackson’s doctor. But I know the real cure lies in the support I’m getting. Without the crazy bunch of friends and family telling me to get my ass in gear, I can honestly say I can take the next four infusions.

And turn into The Fly.

The Fly (1986)

Share