Well, all that weight-gain complaining (the 10 lbs. that I've gained since the day of my diagnosis... just in case you forgot!) might turn around at some point. Apparently, the radiation makes me queasy. Is it the radiation, is it the freak-out in my brain, is it the stress of not loving my daily visit to The Cancer Center (insert maniacal laughter here, along with some hand wringing), is it having to expose my salt water bag to toxic laser beams?
Whatever. I couldn't eat at all today. And I usually have a lumberjack appetite. I had a handful of spinach and a half cup of yogurt.
When I got home, I found my hubby cooking up the perfect filet mignons for us (is the plural mignons, or migni? I kind of like that, it sounds exotic, and wrong.) I started with the spinach (yes, more spinach) salad. Then, I timidly cut a small piece of the filet. It was perfectly cooked and seasoned. I know I've been a beast to live with, though I would suspect that any *horribly diseased and disfigured cancer patient* would be. I've been so at the end of my rope on everything - the fricking laser beams, the small ocean where my breast used to be, the idea of menopause at 41, and not being able to access things that I would like to be able to access so I can get better without getting worse.
This is life in our beautiful country. I love where I live, what I do, who I'm with, but damn. Give a girl a freaking break.
Anyway, I know he cooked a fabulous meal because he does it a lot, he knew I was exhausted, he knew it was my girl's favorite meal, and - the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach. Or gifts. Also, he knew I was nauseated. So I guess cooking something I really love was a good maneuver. Though, I had only eaten maybe 175 calories until that moment. Not that I would ever condone that kind of behavior in anyone, but sheesh. I guess we won't be having migni every night, so perhaps I'll be ok. At least, maybe I won't bust out of my wardrobe anytime soon.
What if the radiation IS making me nauseous? Maybe I can get an extension on my 6 weeks of toxi-torture. I won't be awake, but I'll maybe be back at my pre-cancer weight. It's only 10 lbs... You'd think chopping off my breast would have helped me lose some lbs., but of course, there's a big ol' bag of saltwater there. You know what would be really cool? Sea Monkeys! I have come to realize that it's almost impossible to kill them. We thought they'd be temporary pets when I got them for my kid a year or two ago, but those things just live on. Do they eat each other and procreate that way? Anyway, it would be fun, I could have my little fellas swimming around in my breast, get sonograms to check in, like when I was pregnant. Airport security would be WAY more interesting. From what I can see, it would be a WIN-WIN! Sea Monkeys for every implant! Then, when someone asks how I'm feeling, I could simply respond: "SWIMMINGLY!!!!"
So, now that I'm 2 treatments in, my poor Monkey Bubble is a little red. I'm exhausted. I'm sometimes nauseous. I feel like a fucking Cancer Patient. And I feel alone in a lot of my decisions, which might be a good thing now. I have been shell shocked by finding out I'm a Cancer Patient. I'm not a survivor - and will I ever be? Will I want to be referred to as someone that survived, like some kid holed up in the basement of a kidnappers home, or someone who's country has been attacked, and their family and neighbors have been killed off - but the survivor was in the loo taking a dump, so nobody saw her? (The moral of the story: Pooping can Save your Life!) No, I won't be a survivor. I haven't been sitting like a zombie (most of the time) nodding my head to agree with everything I'm told to do. Am I a warrior? Perhaps closer to my truth on this crap. But, I'm still so weak sometimes. I can't fight a system that only supports certain treatments. I don't have a mattress full of cash to pay for whatever therapies I think would save my life more humanely. Sigh.
All I know is that I have never been one to agree with everything someone tells me because it's easier, or cheaper, or accepted in mainstream society. Because... well... Fuck That. Do I question things just to be oppositional? Could be, sometimes. But as long as I keep an open mind, playing Devil's Advocate is a good game to play - because you have to look at both sides or all 11 sides or whatever Dungeons and Dragons Geekdom you enjoy. As long as my future breast doesn't look like one of those bizarre things - I'd like it more like a pool ball. Maybe I'll have it tattoed to look like one. I could get a Magic 8 Ball Tattoo and answer peoples most pressing questions.
"Outlook not so good"
Ok, scratch that. I'll probably just get a nipple tattoo like all of the other Cancer Patients. Sometimes it's easier to go along with the pack. But, that is a LONG way down the road. Maybe I'll like having no nipple. Yesterday at the Cancer Center * (yes, the maniacal laughter goes here), I put on my awful robe and sat in the freezing waiting room, and for a moment wondered if my "headlight" was on - didn't even question the one that is still there, but the one that is gone! Is that a phantom nipple erection?
Can I even type that without weird search engines hunting for porn on my blogger??? Gross.
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