treatment...

Taken during treatment. I stay hydrated.

The other day a friend asked "what's treatment like?" Quick walk through for those who are curious but are too afraid to ask. Treatment if you haven't realized -took me sometime- refers to chemotherapy, I think someone was wise enough to realize, no matter how you say chemotherapy, you're still saying chemotherapy.

When I show up for treatment, I must first speak to my doctor, a sadist, who really isn't going to give me any helpful or productive information.

Once I've wrapped the medical probing, before which I've been weighed and asked if I'm in pain a few times, I'm placed in the treatment waiting room. Eventually a nurse will show up to guide me to the infusion area- nurses, are the angels, the saving graces that make this dehumanizing situation in the least bit tolerable-. Once seated in the recliner (oh they fancy), with a chair by it's side for my treatment date, blood is drawn, when the blood work comes back all good; the magic happens. Saline to flush out the vein, while the pharmacy draws up my liquid magic, it shows up and for the next hour to three hours; drip, drip, drip, that's it, that's treatment. Treatment in essence isn't what I imagined chemo would be but at the same time I really never fucking imagined what chemo would be.

Treatment for me sucks, before, during and after, oh shit treatment sucks for me, shocker! No, seriously, the better part of the experience for me is during; I've battled the anxiety of getting there, I've passed the fitness portion and now it's just me, my date and my fellow treatment friends. My treatment friends aren't always upbeat but I understand. My treatment friends sometimes say nothing at all, just smile. I had one creepy treatment friend, stare at my sister and I for so long and weirdly, we had the curtain drawn -who doesn't have a creepy friend?-

I see some of my treatment friends often, some I see from time to time and I try not to think too hard when I don't see one, it's scary with us being in treatment and all. These people if only having shared that space with me once or a few times are friends, we have an immediate understanding, a knowing a feeling, as my friend Denise would say, we're part of a club no one wants to be in. But don't pity my treatment friends and I, we laugh up in there, we have personal TVs, some of us have dates and for those who don't, there's Katrina, the lovely Irish nurse who sings when she speaks. When my treatment friends are done with treatment we smile and tell each other to; be well, have a goodnight, have a good one  and we mean it, at least I know I do. Within minutes of meeting each other, we're already hoping and wishing for the best for one another, not many clubs offer that.

this thing called love

Tonight I spent an hour or two talking to my ex on the phone. He's currently residing in a different time zone but we've lost no time at all. He, trying to convince me, rightly so to abandon all pretense, sell my place and runaway to where I really want to be.

Where is that exactly?

He said I need to do things differently. He asked, if I ever wonder is environment partly to blame for what is happening to me? Of course I wonder, of course I want to break free, sell it all and runaway but to where?

you big baby you're not going to do anything...

I wish that weren't true but I'm starting to think it is. Here I am with nothing to lose, literally and part of me is still worried about the fucking bills I'm getting in the mail! I get so frustrated with this part of myself, the part that can't drive, the part that feels so scared to step outside of self and he always brings that part up, the part that judges and gets mad at the other part.

you still miss him...

I miss him dearly, I think he's the last man I'll have ever loved.
I long to lay in bed and listen to him sleep or feel him reach out for me as I sleep.
I miss my feet on his lap as we watch tv
I miss the way he'd make me laugh, still makes me laugh

I don't miss him bringing out this side of me...

the last man I quite possibly will ever love...I want to be in Paris or Haiti thats' where I want to be...

Superstition ...

It use to have seven flowers now it's down to three!

Let me preface this post by saying to all my family and friends, it ain't you, it's me. 

When I was a kid, I avoided stepping on cracks, I shit you not, I had already lost one parent and I wasn't going to be held responsible for breaking the remaining parents' back. I was a mess, I'm still a mess, as evidenced by my heightened superstition, among many other things. It didn't help my situation that I had a witchy mom, she'd have dreams and keep me from school because of what happened in said dreams. But you know what really didn't help? When I went to school the next day and learned the school bus I was suppose to be on, was in an accident. Yeah, this is where my superstition stems from.

As you can imagine or maybe not, every morning when my mom wakes up in my apartment and tells me she's had a dream, I can feel the air getting sucked out of the room:

"Keken (my pet name, don't try to pronounce it, you'll surely fuck it up) I make a dream last night."

 "oh yeah..."

At this point my mother will proceed to tell me her dream, which interestingly enough are always good, since, well, you know. I listen and walk away able to breathe again. But it isn't just my mom anymore. What's up with all these other folks dreaming about me?! shit is getting scary.

It's not cool to have this illness and be superstitious, I see signs everywhere. I got these little houseplants from a friend, surely enough I started freaking out when they died; oh no death is all around me what do I do?! Forgetting that I never had a green thumb, I could kill some dead shit. Now, some five dollar plants die and I'm saying my Hail Marys. I'm watching my orchid like a hawk, the flowers started falling off but there not all gone. I'm going to need them to stay that way, at least until my next scan.

You know when shit gets murky, when you start getting texts like;

you've been on my mind. 
I had a dream about you. 
I can't stop thinking about you

Oh no! my soul is making little journeys to the mind of my friends and family. shit, I'm already gone! 

I explained this to my therapist yesterday and she paused. She usually tells me how normal most of my behavior is given what I'm going through but yesterday, she paused and gave me that long, you've lost your mind look;

"Maybe you should think things out, maybe your friends are dreaming and thinking about you because like anyone would be in this situation, they're hoping for the best for you..."


She made it sound so simple. Does she not know what I'm working with here? does she not know the grim reaper is fucking around with my PlayStation 3?! I acknowledged her theory could be a possibility but deep down I still felt some kind of way about my growing popularity in the sub basements of my friends consciousness.

Post therapy I decided to take a long walk in the city. I was trying to find a bookstore (a dinosaur in these times) and on my way got lost but walked past a Sephora; where I remembered I needed lip tint, so, I got some. I made my way to Soho to grab lunch at a spot I love and on my way to it, I stumbled on a heart etched in the sidewalk concrete. Finally, when I get to the lunch spot and order my food, the owner and man at the register offers me everything free, if I'll let him take a picture of me for his Instagram! I'm looking for the bad signs meanwhile God keeps hurling good ones at me.

Hopefully God can help me not hyperventilate when someone says they thought of me. Good grief ! 

it ain't easy...duh

Yes it is!

Most days I don't know how to deal. I go about my day, I do what I have to, things I want to and I try not to zero in on that little thing I'm ignoring. I can't ignore the little thing for long, it confronts me when I have to make a decision on what to eat; I have to eat things that give me the vitamin bang for my buck, things that are going to attack at those sons of bitches, a small but intrusive reminder that it's not about what I want or crave, it's deeper than that.

I've quit just watching TV -the assault of ads and a life it seems I won't get to live are now irksome, to say the least- I stick to Netflix but in the middle of Breaking Bad, Walter speaks of his "time left" and everything I was ignoring comes to the forefront. You are in the same boat as Walter White, that little voice says and I breakdown. I cry hard, I weep, I heave and I try my best to have faith in what I feel, to not google life expectancy, I did that once and it wasn't fun, nope, not fun at all. Life is a trip, and I don't say that lightly. I mean, it's really a trip; one day your on a surgery ride and the next you can google your life expectancy.

I meditate to keep the thoughts of death away. It feels like I'm playing a game of chess with the grim reaper or lets say Mortal Kombat, I don't know how to play chess. He's on my couch, we're chilling and laughing it up and shit but he's never going to tell me when it's going to happen, he let's the doctors do his dirty work, take guesses and in the meantime, I do all that I can to keep a positive outlook and act like this bum isn't sitting on my couch.

When I wake up he's still on my couch, upset, I'm able to go about my day, I flip dude the bird and do just that. I wonder is he really here? Is this really happening? or is this a phantom bought on by my sadistic doctors and my brains perpetual need to stay grounded and be real? This nightmare doesn't feel real and it doesn't have to be, at least not for me, not right now. But how do I believe in my reality, how do I ignore the docs? #TEAMTRUSTYOURBODY and no other. My body has healed from surgery beautifully. My body is doing awesome in the face of chemotherapy, my body is laughing at these fools because I know, I can shake shit, even this shit, I can walk away from this beast but in the meantime how do I silence the fear and the the docs...