I hate hospital days. (But who likes them, right?)
I hate getting up in the morning.
I hate riding the bus for 30 minutes.
I hate waiting 45 minutes to get my blood drawn and then again going through the schtick of hearing “You have very small veins!” and then the more experienced nurses (or whatever they are) have to be called to draw my blood. Last time they drew it out of the top of my hand.
I hate the fact that there is simply not enough time between getting my blood drawn and turning in the number for my turno so I can see the doctor. If I miss the 8:15 “appointment” (It’s not really an appointment — it’s an appointment for an appointment.) as I wait for my blood results on a different floor, then I have to reschedule. I may wait an hour; I may wait 4.
I hate the fact that my Spanish is not good enough to handle these visits on my own and some friend, usually Kate, has to get up at an ungodly hour and help me. I hate the fact that I feel guilty for asking and today I didn’t ask anyone at all. (Hoping the English-speaking doctor shows up.)
I hate that there are no radiation appointments in the morning so that I can’t even supervise my own Art Walks. I had intended on giving them myself so I could pocket all the money, despite whatever side effects caused by 6 weeks of chemo/radiation did to my energy levels and stamina. But now, there’s no chance of that.
(I hate the fact that fucking tourists are too self-involved to give us a headsup when they can’t make it after confirming a reservation.)
I hate the fact that, nevertheless, the Art Walks are my main hope of a reasonable income.
I hate the fact that when I go into surgery there will be no money coming in at all. I hate the thought of at least a month of recovery doing nothing but that.
I hate that I can’t sleep more than 3 hours per night without at least two Ambien.
I hate the fact that I can’t drink beer anymore, so says the radiation doctor. As I tweeted yesterday, ok, so I’m not allowed alcohol. But beer isn’t alcohol — it’s food! It’s medicine! It’s a shoulder to lean on!
I hate the fact that nobody wants to be buy my shit.
I hate the godsdamn colostomy bag and the paste and the tape and the weird smell of my shit full of poison.
But I really can’t hate the cancer too much because it’s the one thing that could put an end to all this.