Monthly Archives: November 2011

hate

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.

radiate me

I start a 6-week cycle of radiation and chemo tomorrow and I’m worried. I’m generally wiped out after two weeks of chemo. I can only imagine what 6 weeks is going to do to my productivity. The thought of 6 weeks of doing nothing causes me more anxiety than the thought of growing tumors.

The very nice Bolivian doctor of radiology told me to expect some brand new side effects.

1. Having to urinate every 10-15 minutes.

How does one sleep exactly?

2. The feeling of having to defecate ALL THE TIME.

That sounds more like a form of torture than a side effect.

3. Bad sunburn in my ass crack for which she prescribed some fairly expensive cream.

We all had a good laugh trying to find synonyms for “ass crack.” I don’t think there are any other words for that area of the body. The Spanish word is typically literal.

As usual, please think about donating using the chipin widget in the sidebar.

The angel funder of my arts blog paid me one month backpay but he still owes me one more month, and will owe me even more on December 1. He says he has no idea when he’ll be able to pay me for October. No idea. The thought of being broke and having cancer? Another form of torture which I pay for every night by being too anxiety-ridden to sleep.

(Here’s another way to help: Get your own Web site.)

On the other hand, all the doctors have told me that my prognosis was surprisingly good considering that I waited so long to start chemotherapy, paralyzed as I was by fear.

The tumors are responding well to chemotherapy — I guess really they’re responding badly though, right? And the fact that I have no pain in my ass — other than the guy who owes me money, that is — that’s also apparently a good sign.

On the other hand, I’m lonely, stressed and maddeningly horny as hell.