What I Got for Valentine’s Day

Two appointments were scheduled for Valentine’s Day (VD - who can tire of that short form?): a consultation with a radiologist, Dr D, and an appointment with my oncologist to review blood and the CT report. I was told they’d try to do them together so I wouldn't have to wait around between the first at 9:00, and the second at 11:00.

Cancer – a world of best laid plans.

In the Matter of Shrinkage

The first time I had a CT scan I didn’t cry in the machine. I worried. I wondered what the technician was thinking (more likely something along the lines of I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer than holy shit, that’s one big messy fucking incurable tumour).

The CT machine speaks, but offers no insight, advice or comfort. Hold your breath. Let out your breath. I couldn’t hear properly when it said Don’t swallow. Luckily I didn’t swallow. I’m learning that, when a scanning machine prefaces anything with Don’t, I Don’t anything.

cu·mu·la·tive (kyo͞omyələtiv,-ˌlātiv)

Increasing or enlarging by successive addition.

Even booking chemo is bumpy

Remember how last time my chemo schedule got fucked up and I was on a waiting list? A waiting list. For chemo. Which just seems wrong. Isn’t it one of those obligatory, time-sensitive things? As opposed to a voluntary, I think I’ll put myself on the waiting list for that fun activity, thing?

So here’s what happened this time. Last week when I got called to confirm my CT scan for Feb 6, I asked if my chemo was booked. 

Is it working yet?

Cancer has so many freaky parts. I write about them as they hit me. Up until now I’ve been in what feels like the uphill phase – the new world order. Moving bumpily toward the mid-point that may be the beginning of the end of cancer. Or not.

Do it again.

Remember the enhancement? The incidental finding on my brain? I’d gotten quite adept at not thinking about that.  If they were futzing around for so long, isn’t it likely there was nothing to be found?

Her (and me)

The movie Her passes the cancer test. But it fails the distraction test big time. Don’t read this if you don’t want Her spoiled a little.

Back at it!

If I start with these words I’ll feel driven to finish something. I’ve felt guilty about not blogging for a week. That’s not like me. I can write my way through all of this, regardless how depleted I feel. I know that’s not the point of the blog – to put pressure on myself, but it’s my driver. It’s my only job – well that and getting better, which frankly feels pretty passive.

Night at the Emerg - the aftermath

My mom had to remind me how exhausted I was the last time I had chemo. ‘You wrote about it.” Oh ya, I did.

The idea of rereading that blog post to remind myself how crappy it was seems counterproductive or masochistic. While misery does, to an extent, love company, I think it prefers the company of someone else, not the memory of its own past misery. I’ll take her word for it.

Night at the Emerg

Was I too cocky? I certainly jumped the gun by posting chemo #2 – check, on facebook, when chemo #2 wasn’t even finished. Still had one hour of Benda – we’re on a nick name basis now – left to go the following morning. But it went so smooth. I got home, had a work meeting with a friend, had dinner. But by the time I got into bed at 10:15 my head was killing me and I was queezy.

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