Archive for the ‘rage’ Category


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 am annoyed

April 17, 2012

I have been having a couple of of shitty, would not wish on anyone days

This afternoon, over the sound of Martha Stewart, I heard my mom discussing various names in conjunction with mine. I became suspicious. “what’s happening??” I asked, and after a melee of noise, detetermined that a minister was coming by. “What nationality is is he?” I asked, meaning denomination. “Muslim,” my mother answered, which is when I lost my shit. “I have no sense of humor. You can’t be fucking with me!!” Evangelical Baptist is the the real answer. Essentially the opposite of everything I believe.

Supposedly I agreed to this meeting yesterday. My fever was over 103.3 yesterday. I dont think I can be held to anything. I don’t know.

I don’t know what this conversation will will entail, especially if she sits on the the sofa, prissilly overseeing the proceedings.

Fuck this shit.


In which there is scenery-chewing

April 3, 2012

I confronted my mother on the moving issue, maybe I already explained it here, and she was all ” I never said I hated your apartment!” and on for fifteen minutes, and then a day of silence, then a different tack: crushing guilt.

A voicemail message saying, in Sarah Bernhardt tones, how Worried she was about me — no reason given. Just dripping with pathos.

I called this morning. I’m feeling horrible. She answered like I was her lifeline on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and proceeded to cite two bogus reasons for her drama. (One being that I did not answer her bathetic call the other night.)

I’m going back to bed.


In which the tyger is burning bright

March 30, 2012

My best friend from high school is here and while I am so overwhelmingly glad, I am also in the worst of all possible moods.

Part of the moodiness came from opening up the important, i.e., expensive mail, to see what was in there. Idiocy! Sheer idiocy. A survey from some shyster lawyer admonishing me for not filling out his previous survey which asks, among other puzzling questions, whether the “treatment named above,” which is not named, might have been caused by a slip-and-fall at work, or at the hands of another party, possibly during a violent crime.

No, I do not believe that the treatment, which by the date I can tell was chemoembolization, was necessitated by a work accident, you fucking stupid motherfucking ambulance chasers. Which I informed them in the margins.

My irritation is exacerbated by the fact that I have two mutant wisdom teeth growing in, and they hurt. My wisdom teeth, once they started, never stopped emerging. Do I have room for them? Hell no! Are my teeth already fucked up? Why, yes! Yes they are. It is my least favorite physical feature, my smile. I also have a cross-bite, which complicates things. Regardless, I don’t want any more fucking useless teeth. I feel you, little babies around the world, with those awful white pegs eroding your perfect gums. It does hurt. And you’re just on the first set.

I guess if you’re in a really shitty mood, it doesn’t hurt to have a slightly menacing smile.

Not amused.


In which there is Drama!

March 28, 2012

Sooooooooo… Because my brain, unattended, wanders down convoluted paths, I decided to text my mother so I did. And I went off/drew some boundaries about a couple of things, of which being that I like my apartment, I am not moving from my apartment, and I will scream until the police come of anyone tries to evict me. Scream!!!

Oh, the phone call I got. “All lies! I would never say that!!!” oh, the drama. There was an attempt at ferreting out my source, but I was steel.

There was a brief review of the “Shut up the cat/God wants you to have a new apartment.” incident, which she attributed to a lack of knowledge of how one might go about this impossible task, despite having lived with multiple cats for, oh, 28 or more years.

Anyway, I refused to give up my source, which no doubt just made my mother more wiley, but I made myself clear. I am not moving.

I’m sure she is pissed, but there’s nothing I can do. It does seem plausible that she told people she hates my apartment. Oh, well. It’s my weird little apartment. I like it.


TV on for company.


In which there’s more crazy-making

March 26, 2012

So… I told my mother that I didn’t want her getting an apartment down here. I told her that there was no reason for it. I told her I would prefer if she just visits now and again.

Well, naturally, she ignored my request. I got an email — sent to the whole family down here, like we’re going to be overjoyed — “I found a place to stay!” Fucking great. It’s one of her typical harebrained schemes. She’s going to be rooming with (and supposedly helping) some 300-year-old mother of a high school classmate, who remembers my grandparents, but not anyone from a younger generation.

I’m really not sure how this will work. Well, to be clear, it obviously won’t work. I’m so angry at her for going against what I asked her to do.

I also have a lot of anxiety regarding her stay here, because she’s been telling people she hates my apartment and wants me to move. Yeah. I can barely walk to the kitchen. I will not be moving. I pray, anyway. I guess that explains her asshole response to me asking her to quiet down the cat.

I just got back from LA, where I discussed the horrifying and invasive options available. I literally do not know what to do.

Right now, I’m going to take a Xanax, try to chill the fuck out, and take a nap.

A final note: for those of you who know my mom, I ask you please not to say anything to her. I am working on a strategy to manage her boundary-smashing behavior. Thank you.


A corner of my apartment, which I happen to like.


In which I’m losing it

March 17, 2012

My mother is coming to help me clean. She can’t come right now cos she’s at the gym, but she will be here.

“You don’t sound well,” she said when I answered the phone. “Did you get your brother’s cold?” No, as it turns out, it’s just this pesky cancer! Can’t seem to shake it!

I had a transition dream last night. I’ve had them my whole life. They involve driving over a high and improbably angled bridge, always with no guard rail. Last night, my best friend Sue B was driving, and the bridge was so high, it felt like we were going to fall off it backwards. We just kept going. There was a toll booth. And then another, higher bridge. No one else was on these roads, and we just kept driving.

It seems to me that we had to get to Sacramento, which I guess is symbolic enough, and that there were many roads to get there.

I don’t remember how the dream ended.

I’m feeling today like I don’t want another round of vomit-inducing, hair-removing chemo. Largely because I can’t imagine feeling worse than I do right now. Plus: the other chemos I tried did absolutely nothing. Nothing! That is baffling to me. Me, who has no medical training.

I’m not up to it, but here is what I’d rather do:

Go to Paris
Go to Disneyland.
Go to a day spa for a week.
Listen to A Christmas Carol on audiobooks
Visit the Museum of Jurassic Technology
Have a good steak with a butter-and-wine sauce
Take a calm, leisurely sail on a little sailboat, and nap in the sun.

I guess I can actually listen to a Christmas Carol.

Here’s one last worry: my aunt said she’d take care of my funeral and I gave her very specific instructions. But now I’m having my doubts that it will happen. No, I won’t ever know, probably, but I really want something specific. Not some fucking PowerPoint slide show of shitty ’80s pictures and a hastily prepared montage board of more shitty pictures, standing next to the guest book and the disarrayed stack of programs featuring yet another shitty photo of me.

That reminds me, I have to work on my will today.

I am really trying to keep the fury at bay today, but my liver is expanding, which is both bad and hurts, and I am seriously thinking about saying Fuck it to the chemo. I cannot in good conscience allow myself to feel exponentially worse than I do now, without some reasonable odds of living more than a few months. This decision gets easier to make every day. Thank you, supporters who encourage me to kick ass and keep fighting, but I no longer have faith that there is a cure.


Maybe this’ll work.