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 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 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.


In which I keep on the sunny side

April 12, 2012

I made the decision to enjoy a few days of semi-normalcy after the transfusion, and so postponed the chemo for a week.

Last year, I would have jumped in with both feet. This year, having seen nothing but lackluster results, I’m a little more blasé. We’re gonna wait.

It seems that my mom’s 90-year-old companion is providing a good distraction for her. And so, because I have vented a lot about her, I will offer something nice:

It is a fact that she, her sister and their brother marched with their grade school band in the opening day parade at the Happiest Place on Earth.

That is pretty neat.

In other news, my brother brought me a new stuffed kitten.


I’ve named him Moxie. Kong’s immediate reaction was to hit him in the face, hard. Welcome to my world, Moxie.