After weeks of begging Kate to take a picture of my oncologist, she finally took it upon herself to ask him if it were OK.
He agreed, gave a big, uncharacteristic smile and then asked why.
She didn’t say, Because Rick thinks you’re cute, but rather that we were maintaining a blog about Rick’s Adventures with Cancer in Argentina’s Public Health Care system.
His response: Perfecto!
He seems to be attempting a goatee here and his hair is even more disheveled than usual.
I’m still quite crushed.
This is what my feet look like after a cycle of chemotherapy. And also after a day of walking around the hospital and to and from public transit. They are in better shape than they were last month during the 3-week cycle of chemo. It’s just this time Kate was around with her camera.
That black stuff is fabric from my socks sticking to my sticky feet. My feet are clean, otherwise. And yeah, that flap is dead skin. The half-dollar sized blisters have gone away, thankfully, or else I would not be able to walk at all without a lot of pain.
What happens is that the chemo drug seeps through pores of my hands and feet and burns them, cracking open the skin like the aftermath of a bad sunburn. It also leaks out my eyeballs and merges with my snot. More burning.
Doctor Paz was happy that my immune system bounced back so quickly from the last round of chemo. He’s so soft-spoken and his face is usually so placid that it’s often hard to tell what’s he’s thinking, But when he saw my blood results he broke into a smile and tapped the paper several times — Muy bien, muy bien, he said.
The last round of chemotherapy was the first time that I actually experienced debilitating side effects. I’ve gotten used to wearing gloves to protect me from the peripheral neuropathy and the generous application of moisturizing cream has protected me from the worst aspects of the hand-foot syndrome which causes blisters, cracking and very dry skin. It’s like a bad sunburn without the sun.
However, nothing prepared me for the fatigue, (Or for my beard to go completely white, which I kinda like.)
The most I could manage to do for myself was go to the bathroom and that felt like it took ages and the kind of strength necessary to lift heavy objects. I was out of breath just walking across the room. Stairs and trips to the hospital? Exhausting. Changing my colostomy bag is always a horror but no one else but me could change it the five times it needed changing in one day because of out of control diarrhea.
Without Kate, I wouldn’t have been able to get fed or get the basic medical supplies I need. Not to mention the liters of liquid I required because of the threat of dehydration. It wasn’t a fun week and drained me emotionally as well as physically. Yeah, I thought, I’m gonna breeze through this chemo thing. A little too cocky, I think.
I’m in another round of chemo now and doing ok. Apparently, one’s resistance increases the more rounds you do. Up to a point. Doctor Paz told me I needed to get used to it. There’ll be another round of chemo after my MRI on the 29th and before my surgery around the end of October.
Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten paid this month. The patron who funds the Juanele AR project is out of money and there’s no telling when he’ll have more. I won’t go homeless but Juanele is my main source of income. I am ramping up to restart the affiliate marketing I used to do but that will take a while. Plus it’s about the only thing I have energy for right now. Treating cancer, especially in the public health care system where I can wait three hours or more just see my doctor, is a full time job. And I nap a lot.
So if you’ve been holding off donating, now is the time to do so. Or if you were thinking about buying a MacBook Pro from Amazon, please use my affiliate search box over there on the right. Every dollar helps me eat and buy colostomy bags.
Juanele is also selling iPads and MackBook Airs on Facebook Marketplace. These are going for more than they would sell in the U.S. but less than they would sell new in Argentina. Consider it fundraising auction. These sales won’t directly benefit me but they will help Juanele AR continue for a while longer.
I love the feel of hot shit running down my once clean belly, through the hair on my legs and finally collecting between my toes. I love the sweet and sour smell.
I love the look of a red and angry stoma.
I enjoy the surprised looks of friends who notice that shit has just dropped from underneath my shirt and onto the zipper of my jeans as I’m talking to them.
I love to drip shit in public onto my sandals while I’m standing in line at the pharmacy to buy yet more colostomy bags.
I love the fact that I worry about shit all day long. Do I smell? Am I leaking? Can I lift that chair or move that desk without breaking the seal of my bag? Can I bend over to tie my shoes? Can I walk a block without having to turn around and come back? Does everyone notice the bulging bag underneath my shirt?
(The answer is yes and many feel absolutely no prohibition against touching it to find out what it is. That’s yet another reason why I don’t socialize.)
I loved changing my bag five times in one day because the chemo drugs were causing diarrhea and diarrhea is very very bad for colostomy bags.
I am an incontinent infant with no diaper when my bag leaks, particularly in the middle of the night.
My life.
Is full.
Of shit.
If the Angel of Death offered me 3 years more life with the bag or one year without the bag, I would have no trouble making up my mind.
