Archive for the ‘Medical Good Times’ Category


In which things shake out

May 4, 2012

So, after some really intense fighting yesterday, I think things have shaken out a bit.

For which I am grateful.

I have never embraced the pink bracelet culture of cancer fighters. It just didn’t really jibe with my vision, or whatever. But my friend Mickey came down to visit, giving me a pink rubber bracelet like the one she was wearing. It reads, Cancer Sucks, and I was like, Yeah. Pretty much. So I’m now wearing the bracelet in her honor.

And this arrived:


So that’s a big plus. Things are looking up.

Today is better than yesterday. Let’s hope that’s a continuing trend.


In which I hit a new low

May 3, 2012

Fuck. I have been trying to keep it together but of course, today, my mother frustrated me so much that I lost it and ended up yelling and now she is sulking in the kitchen, yes, sulking. Because I “used exasperation” in my tone in dealing with a stupid conversation. She is like a dog with a bone. She gets in there and really gets her teeth into a subject of acute stupidity and won’t let it go.

In this case, the turning point of the case rested on the idea that she needed exacting directions to drive to a certain pharmacy to pick up a prescription I did not ask her to refill. The driving directions, and this is in the days of gps, amounted to “take the exit, then turn left on the next street, which is clearly marked.”

She turned it into such a clusterfuck of idiocy, like, but what lane will I need to be in??? that I finally lost my shit and started sobbing and she was all, well, you’re using exasperation on me and I have trouble navigating your unfrozen cave man roads, so you should be kinder to me.

That she has been to this pharmacy before made no difference. That she can navigate these roads all day long if she’s going to the healing rooms, is of no consequence. I used exasperation, and I think we can all see that that is the major crime, here. My evil failure to acknowledge her intermittently crippling Traffic Anxiety.

And so I am back to my drugs, and she is sulking in the next room because look how much she has done for me and I don’t appreciate it.

Here is the ovoid face today:


You want to see what cancer looks like? It looks like that. A stupid argument and a lot of rage and since I can’t get up and grovel in the next room, some frosty silence until She decides to forgive me.

Trust me, this is the ugliest side of the disease, when politeness has been smashed into bits and the real feelings come through. And it is inevitable that they do. And I hate every second of it. Every motherfucking second.


In which I count my blessings

May 2, 2012


Isn’t this a horrible picture of me, plotting my escape? It really is, and I post it here as a gesture of bravery and suggestion that, in real life, I am eight times more beautiful than Celine. Dion. And I’m not bragging on myself — I have a certificate of authenticity issued by the … Eh, I got nothin’.

But all this by way of saying that I feel better today. Two days ago, I could not type the word intersection without 32 extra letters, and today, I’m bagging on super-hot celebrity Celine Dion. Progress? I agree.

My mom has been amenable to all my great plans. The key, which I believe all 3 of my beautiful readers suggested, is to keep her busy. Who knew?

Anyway, I used to kind of hate people who said they were “so blessed,” or whatever, because it seemed braggy to me in a “Jesus loves me more than you…” kind of way. But then tonight, I sat down and gave some thought to what I actually have. I won’t run down this list, but it seems that I am in fact blessed in my own right and do not need to plot my escape.

Small example: my favorite restaurant agreed to make my favorite soup tomorrow just on the strength of my aunt asking them. “Oh, soup — big whoop,” you say, snapping your gum, hand on one hip, like you’re some kind of Celine Dion, and you would be right, except that you have not tasted this soup and so you do not know!!!

Anyway, I am still really sick. I’m on a lot of drugs. But I can type again! And despite that, I will continue to blog. You are welcome. And if you take issue with my reasoning, just remember: Drugs.

Here’s a picture of me and my oval-shaped head, to erase the memories of the previous picture I so recklessly posted.


It’s so ovally! Hee hee hee hee!

(See: Drugs.)


In which there’s a break in communication

April 25, 2012

I awoke with this joke in my head:

Q: What do you call half a Soviet news agency?

A: Demitasse.

It is not the kind of joke you can tell nowadays. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because it’s irrelevant. And it wasn’t that funny to begin with.


In which there’s a little

April 23, 2012

Damn! I got out of the hospital like I was shot out of a cannon. It takes a while to “transition” to the outside world.

Thanks for the love in the face of my temper.

I’m now at home, being driven batshit crazy by my mother and her sister. I apparently have to be watched 24 hours a day. This gives them plenty of time to second-guess the nurse and tell humiliating stories about my youth.

I cannot tell you how oppressive being watched 24 hours is. Like, actively watched. It is surreal and horrible. I’m so exhausted that I can’t absorb more information.

Also? My mom’s preferred topic of conversation? The intense toxic pain that comes with grief (hers).

I am so tired.


In which there is intensive care

April 18, 2012

Hi, there. Violet here. Forgive all odd spellings and syntax.

I’m in the icu at the hospital and rationing water for for four hours, relegated to a bedpan when needed. No, I don’t particularly want visits, I don’t mean to sound harsh. Nor phone calls. I’m covered with monitors and bloody IVs.

I’ve decided to discontinue chemo. It didn’t do anything. It made me sick. This discontinuation creates more conversation I don’t care about. I tune it out. I don’t want a walker. Where would I go?

And besides all the paperwork, the Medicare, the money, which I must somehow pay, there’s the question of me. What’s going to happen to me? Physically. It’s weird. Do I get another summer? Do I get to revisit the beach house of my childhood summers? Do I drag on for months? Is there another Christmas? What about Paris? What about Kong? What about my family?

Sorry. I don’t want to to hear from you. I can’t answer questions. I have no sense of humor. I glad your aunt Gladys kicked this disease but I also don’t care.



In which I take it easy

April 13, 2012

There’s rain on the roof and a warm comforter. My cat is curled up nearby and while he’s not exactly with me, he’s present enough. I’m enjoying a day off from medical procedures, from having blood drawn. These days are invaluable.

Call me lazy –I don’t hear you.