Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Oh, and Ow.

My armpit is like a nasty dried up piece of tuna sushi. All red and black and purple and peeling and just NASTY.

Nice visual, 'eh?  At least I'm not posting a picture. Heck, I can't bring myself to take a picture of it. Though hubby did a few nights ago - I think it actually looks worse today.

And it feels like crap. It's SO dry, I put all the different creams on and it gets immediately sucked in (after it burns the shit out of the open skin where the dead crap peeled off). I have quite an extensive 4 letter vocabulary. It all comes out when I either take off my clothes or put on the lotion.

Precious, indeed.

I found out recently that a style of sleeve that is apparently in (or on its way out, since I found them on sale!) is called a batwing. It's the perfect "Owch, my fucking armpit is killing me because of the radiation to my lymph nodes, which - by the way - they cut out of my body, so why the hell are they burning me there, too?" top. The problem really lies in the bra. I really do wish that I had a double - because I have a real breast, I have to not only wear a bra (without any bells or whistles, so sports bras are good, but they're not supposed to be tight on the surgery side, what the hell???) but I have to manipulate the real side to match the fake side - because the fake side is completely immobile. 

Funny, many people have no clue what's going on, and when they hug me I try to turn to my "real" side, but sometimes they catch me off guard and all I can think is, they must think I'm one of those chicks who is 76% plastic. Then again, if that were really who I was, I would have removed 5 or 6 ribs by now. Mmm. Ribs. Speaking of missing ribs, check her out. 

I question so much. Why are there murderers, rapists, etc. that don't have cancer? How is it that every person I've known with cancer has been generally a good human being? Maybe we don't hear about the drug dealers with cancer (and I'm not talking about Breaking Bad, that was after the fact!)

I was checking my yogurt maker's progress and pouring kombucha this morning, clutching my bathrobe so that the burn cream could absorb into my skin, really looking like a little old lady who lost the tie belt to her robe but just had to hobble out to get the Sunday paper, and I hoped no neighbors could see me through the kitchen window. I then wondered how many women in a 2 block radius have been through this, and it just pissed me off when I realized, way too many. And now I'm one of them. Fucking stupid ass cancer. 

Yesterday, the magazine was published and hubby and I are on the cover. I'm nervous for THAT many people to know what's up, but it has to be done. And I will feel better not hiding anymore. I think,

Fuck.

We have a brunch planned with a good friend who's in from LA - and ironically, I found out a month or so ago that he started a fundraiser - raising cash for breast cancer research. Small world, no? 

Then, an oyster date with a lovely couple. 

And all I can think is: "Shit, I have to wear a bra".

And this, folks, is my life until the burning and stinging and pain are gone. But the more I live my life, the harder it is to physically heal. But if I stay home all the time, my skin would heal faster and I'd be crazier than ever. No thanks. 

Okey dokes, time for makeup. I definitely like to wear a lot of glittery makeup (all natural, of course!) these days - even though I feel like shit, I want to look like I don't!