Books.

Marcus was thoughtful enough to send me The Emperor of All Maladies, which I had meant to get months ago, but with everything going on, it slipped the brain. I was barely into the book, tears in my eyes, thinking “yep, yep, yep” and identifying with so much. It’s a truly riveting narrative, and it’s what the very best books always are – an opportunity to learn.

One thing which really struck deeply home was when the author talked about how it’s difficult to think of cancer as a thing, it’s more on the person side, and that’s so true. I don’t think of my cancer as random cells happily cloning and evolving at the expense of the rest of me; I don’t think of it as a nebulous disease; I don’t think of it as a thing. It’s more like you separate, and there’s a shadowy self staring you down, a dark charcoal swipe of a doppelgänger, challenging you to wage war for your life, and cancer cells are much better at the whole evolution business than we are, which is why you get poisoned and radiated to what feels like an inch from death. All that said, and given the recent nightmare of treatment, I found myself profoundly grateful for the current stage of medical and technological advance when I read this:

The sixteenth-century surgeon Ambroise Paré described charring tumors with a soldering iron heated on coals, or chemically searing them with a paste of sulfuric acid. Even a small nick in the skin, treated thus, could quickly suppurate into a lethal infection. The tumors would often profusely bleed at the slightest provocation.

Lorenz Heister, and eighteenth-century German physician, once described a mastectomy in his clinic as if it were a sacrificial ritual: “Many females can stand the operation with the greatest courage and without hardly moaning at all. Others, however, make such a clamor that they may dishearten even the most undaunted surgeon and hinder the operation. To perform the operation, the surgeon should be steadfast and not allow himself to become discomforted by the cries of the patient.”

I’d dearly like to be able to go back in time and smack the fuck out of Heister, and a host of others. Misogyny seriously sucks, and boy, is it ever present in cancer treatment. It’s certainly lessened a great deal, but it’s still more than present. Sigh.

Anyroad, highly recommended, for everyone.

ETA: Feeling better, got my anger and FUCK ITs back. Yeah.

Cancer Chronicles 11: Home.

Let’s hear it for Sister Morphine.

The photo I couldn’t upload on Wednesday.

Home. When you show up for your labs/oncology visit/chemo, this is something you don’t want to hear: “Your labs are terrible! There is no way in hell you’re getting chemo today! You need to be in hospital.” :Considers running away again: “I’m going to stop meeting you like this if you keep putting me in hospital.”

Yes, I was very dehydrated, severe diarrhea for 12 days will do that, and I am not a good fluid intake person. The main trouble was that my liver enzymes were through the roof. Uh oh. My oncologist pinned his hopes on a possible bile duct stone, as I’m lacking a gallbladder. I doubted this was so; outside the constipation/diarrhea combination, I had no abdominal pain. Turns out this was so, a scan showed everything normal in that area. So, if this is chemo induced, I get kicked out of the trial, and switched to ‘traditional chemo’. I didn’t want to just do that, and neither did my oncologist, because there could be a couple of other factors: my obviously over the top reaction to the miralax, and the acetaminophen in my regular pain meds, which was quite increased from normal dosage due to very increased pain.

The GI doc and a couple of others who came to visit on Wednesday kept asking me about acetaminophen, specifically Tylenol, like I swallowed half a bottle every day for a hobby or something. So for now, I’m not taking anything acetaminophen based, gone over to morphine, my liver count was trending down very quickly, and the diarrhea has finally slowed down, so next week I’ll do chemo infusion two, just the same, stay off the acetaminophen for the following two weeks, then we’ll see what the labs say. Hopefully, I’ll be able to stay in the trial. I think I’ll probably win ‘exasperating patient’ of the year.

What is clear is that I’ll have to do all the stuff right from the start, low fiber diet, lots and lots and lots of fluid intake. My ostomy end is still not working, so I’ll need to see my surgeon again, too. I’ll admit to being somewhat afraid of the latter, because if I hear ‘hospital’ again in the next week or two, I might start screaming. I hate being in hospital, but I will say, for someone who hates it as much as I do, the nurses are always happy to see me, because I’m not the miserable asshole with them or any other medical folk. I always engage with them, and turn my humour to ‘extra high’, and I never ever have cause to complain about my treatment.

On Wednesday, I didn’t have my MRI scan until evening. Pick up arrived around 6 pm or so, and when I wandered out to the hall, there was a large man, dressed all in black, bristling with gear, looked like a cop, which took me aback a bit. The gurney was black, with enough straps to please a mad insane asylum director. I looked at him, looked at the gurney, and said “I wish I’d known, I would have put on my super villain outfit.” So, I got a ride in an ambulance to the MRI center. My first time in one, kind of interesting, and a nice break from hospital boredom. I was happily drugged for this scan, so I was able to lie still without much pain.

Odd things: my veins, which have never been what you call cooperative (I’m a roller), seemed to go on full strike on Wednesday. In the morning, getting my labs done, the needle goes in, nothing. The needle gets moved about quite a bit, nothing. Took about 20, 25 seconds for blood to show up. We had a good laugh about that, because it was really fucking weird. Later, in hospital, it was one blown vein after another. Much much later, talking with my oncologist, he was annoyed my port wasn’t used. So, I enquired about that (I had completely forgotten about the port myself.) One of my nurses told me they stopped using ports, because when they used them for everything, labs and IV, the rate of infections went up, and they got all the blame for it. Naturally, they weren’t happy about that, so they just quit using them. Can’t blame them, I wouldn’t want to blamed for that either, especially when every precaution possible is taken.

Thursday was one very long day, into evening, of sit, wait, and try to deal with deadly boredom. I wasn’t released until late evening, and I had to fight a bit for that, so by the time we got home, it was very late, and I swallowed some morphine and collapsed. Still not feeling great, but I’d much rather feel lousy at home. Jayne gets seriously unglued when I go missing, so I had to spend some time with him; he thought I smelled funny. The rats were all “oh Great Rat, serving wench, you are home! Feed us all the good things!” Grace and Vala just stared at me, then the empty tea dish, glaring at my compleat nerve at not being around to make sure they had their tea and pastry.

So, things should get back to normal here, for at least a while. One lesson learned: even on a routine visit, toss the packed duffel bag in the car, along with the secondary computer, cords, all that crap…just in case. Normally, I’d just toss it all in the car and leave it, but we’re still in below zero temps here. That can’t go away soon enough.

Flu Shot Jesus.

If you know who to credit, let me know.

Gloria Copeland, wife of Kenneth Copeland, who was recently boasting about the Gulfstream plane “Jesus bought” for him, has something to say about influenza.

A video was posted on the ministry’s Facebook page featuring Copeland’s wife, Gloria, telling people that there is no such thing as flu season and that they don’t need to get a flu shot because “Jesus himself gave us the flu shot.”

“Listen partners, we don’t have a flu season,” Gloria Copeland said. “And don’t receive it when somebody threatens you with, ‘Everybody is getting the flu.’ We’ve already had our shot, He bore our sicknesses and carried our diseases. That’s what we stand on.”

Right, it’s all part of Jehovah’s plan when people get sick and die, so no worries there. These idiots tangled with measles in the recent past, and measles won. A person might think they would have learned something, but no.

Praying for those who may already have the flu, Copeland proclaimed, “Flu, I bind you off the people in the name of Jesus. Jesus himself gave us the flu shot, He redeemed us from the curse of flu.” Those who don’t have the flu, she promised, can protect themselves by simply declaring, “I’ll never have the flu.”

“Inoculate yourself with the word of God,” Copeland advised.

Oh, I’m so sure “I’ll never have the flu” works a charm. The curse of flu? Okay, that’s a new one, where in the bible is that little gem, because I’d like to read it. What else do you tell people who do have the flu, that Jesus doesn’t love them as much? He got behind with the inoculations? As for “binding” the flu, uh, isn’t that kind of a witchcraft thing? While the bible doesn’t mention influenza, it does mention witchcraft. Might want to watch your step there, Ms. Copeland.

And while I don’t care if you want the misery of flu, you have no business inflicting it on others, you nasty, thoughtless ass.

You can see the whole mess at RWW.

There Just Isn’t Enough FUCK YOU.

Pastor Rich Vera of The Center for Revival and Healing in Orlando, Florida, has been mouthing off, much of it the usual “praise Trump” crap and “oh prosperity is a comin'”, but that wasn’t quite good enough, no. Let’s mention a couple of diseases, too, because that’s always good for getting the rubes attention, yeah?

Asked by Roth about his prophecy that the cures for breast cancer* and Alzheimer’s would soon be discovered, Vera asserted that Trump’s decision to move the embassy will be directly responsible for those discoveries.

“This is the most amazing thing,” Vera said. “What happened in Israel with President Trump proclaiming Jerusalem to be the eternal capital of the Jewish people, it is a significant thing in the spirit world because for him to be the man that spoke boldly to the nations of the world, he released a spirit that opened a portal for blessings to be released from Israel to the rest of the world.”

“When the president went—and I saw this in a vision—and proclaimed that on television,” he added, “there was literally a portal that opened up and it began to flush like a waterfall to America and we are about to experience prosperity like we have never experienced before.”

AAUUUUUGGGGGGHH, NO. NO, NO, NO.  Today, I was reading a post of Jen Gunter’s, about her attendance at a goop conference. The rapacious predators were loose there, too. I already have a good amount of anger over having cancer, and treatment, and the way people are, and so much fucking more, but today? Oh, the word anger is not sufficient. Not even fucking close. This shit is unconscionable, telling people that “hey, god’s gonna show with that cure, just hold on and pray now” or “ooh, love cures cancer!” Fuck every godsdamn fucking one of you nasty assholes who says or preaches such utter shit. Treatment for any disease is not fun; turning people away from it? How much more depraved could you get? Getting a kick out of stuffing your pockets as you play Death and prey on vulnerable people. Not enough fuck you. Not enough fuck off.

Of course, the two diseases singled out by Vera are common, and come pre-laced with a great deal of fear and horror, but that’s christianity all over for you, preaching fear, it’s the basis of their whole twisted religion. Fear, fear, fear. Bow down in fear, and Jehovah might cure you. Maybe. Probably not, but ya know…Of course, when you die, the preaching will be about “god’s” will and calling you home or whatthefuckever.

This sort of shit makes me beyond furious, all those who think it’s okely dokely to further burden people who already carry a massive burden on their shoulders; to blame people for having a fucking disease; to pick their pocket while telling them to have faith in whatever: god, nature, Goture, supplements, love, prayer, whatthefuckever. If you’re one of those hideous, evil people, shut your fucking mouth, and go sit in the damn corner. You’re a dealer in death, a carrion crow who can’t wait to start pecking eyes out. (No insult towards crows, they perform valuable services, unlike Vera or Goopers.) You deserve hate and loathing from every person on this damn planet, and if there were a god, I’d be cursing you with every bloody breath.

The whole thing is at RWW.

*And for those who don’t know, even breast cancer is not one specific cancer. Cancer is crazy complex, and it’s hundreds of diseases under one heading. If you want to help yourself or someone you know with cancer, get information from reputable, evidence based sources.

Cancer Chronicles 7: Shock & Silences.

The first day of chemo outfit: shirt with skulls, bag to match. The rest: black jeans, knee high Doc Martens lace ups.

The first day of chemo outfit: shirt with skulls, bag to match. The rest: black jeans, knee high Doc Martens lace ups, bright red hooded coat.

What your port looks like in use.

What your port looks like in use.

That is the giant pump which has to be attached to my port for two days. It’s 6″ in length and 7″ in diameter. They need to hire some people from Intel, it would miniaturized in no time. Has to be above the waist at all times. The other stuff is what I need to flush the port after disengaging the pump.

Cancer. The shock of it all didn’t set in until this past Monday (22nd). That’s when I felt like I was going to fall apart, and it was hard to keep tears at bay. My oncologist asked me if I wanted to start chemo this week or next; I replied “now is best, because I’m at the point of running away and not coming back.” Doc thought I was joking, but I wasn’t. I really wanted to run. So, yesterday was my first chemo day. My schedule will at least be less hectic for a while, and I’m grateful for that one.

Before I talk about the chemo, I want to briefly address reactions to CANCER. There will be a fair amount of people who you thought would have at least given you a “oh, that sucks”, but instead, don’t acknowledge the CANCER or you, in any way at all. If you’re newly diagnosed, don’t be surprised by that. A lot of people simply will not acknowledge or address the issue. There are other unexpected reactions too. Yesterday, stopped by my pharmacy to pick up Dexamethasone, and one of my pharmacists started crying when she found out I had cancer. That made me crumple up inside, and I felt awful for making her feel awful. For the most part, supportive friends and family are right there for you, and you can get to know your fellow travelers in treatment, too.

Okay, chemo. In my hospital, the chemo suite is called The Infusion Center. Long room, more like a very large, central hall, lined with individual stations. Each station has a comfortable recliner, a chair side table, IV stand to one side, and an overhead, swivel mount television with earphones. There’s a stack of extra chairs for whoever you bring with you. You go in, sit down, sign a bunch of forms, and repeat your surname and birth date for the zillionth fucking time. I’m seriously contemplating giving my birthdate as Fall 1529. I don’t think medical would be amused. Every single person you talk to, “okay, give me your name and birth date”. I know they don’t want to make mistakes, but fuck me, I’m beyond tired of it. Being a smart-ass helps, which is why I went with a skull theme. It was mostly appreciated by med staff. ETA: my infusion center comes with a nurse who never shuts up. (I was seated across from the nurses station.) Headphones and your choice of at least 4 hours of music: a very good thing.

I got all the lectures about Oxaliplatin, in particular, the cold sensitivity and possibility of peripheral neuropathy.  So far, I seem to have escaped those effects, but it’s early days yet. I have not come close to drinking as much fluid as I have been instructed to do, and I’m still pissing like an overhydrated horse. Which reminds me, forgot to get Kool-Aid. There’s only so much apple juice a person can take.

After chemo, I was feeling starved, so we ate, then we had to do a bit of shopping. I was feeling okay enough to do that, but having that giant capsule swinging about was a right pain in the arse. I was a bit antsy because I had not remembered to take my immodium with me, and while I didn’t really have that “ohgodsfuck diarrhea” sensation, I did have a weird one, which could be best described as the tumour playing at being Jack Nicholson axing his way through the door in The Shining. Just a vague sort of terror that the tumour might do something utterly mortifying while in public. So, remember to pack all the little stuff if you’re going to be out and about after chemo.

Going home, I could not keep my eyes open. I stumbled into the house, managed to shed clothes, and fall on the bed, got the giant capsule tucked under the pillow, and was out like a light for several hours. Woke up, ate too many fudge brownies, went back to bed, read Book of the Night by Oliver Pötzsch, a wonderfully fun book, went back to sleep. Biggest effects so far: crampy, tired, acid reflux and really sore leg muscles for some reason. That set in rather early in the infusion center. Other than that, okay. I’ll be right happy to get rid of this damn capsule on Friday, seriously bad design flourishes in the medical industry. Initially, they wanted me back on Friday to have the pump removed, but when we told them that was not convenient, I got instructions to do it all myself.

Still have the nasty butt pain, and can’t go unmedicated for very long, which is on the annoying side, but I’ll live. Hahaha. I feel another nap coming on…

ETA: Food. Stock up on frozen foods, and easy to prepare stuff, like cottage cheese with fruit or veg. Have things like chicken salad prepared, and bread in the house. If someone loves you to pieces and can cook, have them do up some casseroles for you. The easier it is to eat, the more likely it is you’ll actually do that. You’re much more likely to decide eating is not so important if you wander into the kitchen, and decide you really don’t want to be cooking. Also, stock up on all the ‘bad for ya’ stuff: ice cream, brownies, muffins, cup cakes, banana bread, what have you. If you have colon cancer, by the time you get to radiation, they’ll tell you to do a low fiber diet, which is basically all the stuff which is typically considered bad: white breads, pancakes, pasta, butter, cream, cheese, and so on. Having plenty of goodies around is a way to easily pig out when you’re feeling like it.

Cancer Chronicles 6: Tired and Tunneled.

Cancer Vixen, Marisa Acocella Marchetto.

Warning: below the fold is a photo of my chemo port taken right after surgery. It’s not hideous, looks kinda like a body mod gone wrong, but if you’re sensitive, don’t look.

So, the 19th. My diagnosis was on Dec. 19th. January 19th was medical hell day. I’m starting to dislike 19ths. Yesterday, had to leave the house at 5:45am for a full day: PET scan, radiation doc visit, MRI, and chemo port installation. We finished up all the medical stuff at 6pm. Tired doesn’t begin to cover it.

[Read more…]

Cancer Chronicles 4: Pathology & Expression.

So…eventually, the path report makes its way to your door. Mine: Adenocarcinoma, moderately differentiated, with invasive feature and ulceration. Translation: invasive adenocarcinoma. There, that was easy. In my case, nothing I didn’t know already, but don’t get frittered by language. Look it up. If you have questions, write them down. Never be afraid to ask. The more you understand, the better you’ll be able to manage.

If ever there was a time to express yourself, this is that time. (You should be doing that anyway. Don’t wait til’ cancer comes knocking.) This is a good time to treat yourself a little. Doesn’t have to be major. I got a couple things at Big Lots:

© C. Ford.

You would not believe how incredibly obnoxious that pink nail polish is, dialed up to about nth. Everyone in the hospital loved it, kinda cheered us all up. Looks right good on the toes. Of course, for me, yet more art supplies. Got a lovely case of Daler Rowney pencils, which brings me to expression.

© C. Ford.

Draw. Write. Craft. Sing. Get your camera out. Make up new and awful fart jokes. Mortify your teenager by whipping your shirt open and saying “look, you were right, I’m full of shit!” Howl out your window and freak the fuck out of your neighbours. (They deserve it for those fucking fireworks after midnight anyway.) Something. Anything. I can’t quite do a nice bellyflop on my bed and play around with markers yet, but I’m working on it. Did you know you can get paper clips which are shaped like elephants? Make a chain of elephants. The list goes on. And on. Embrace all the moments. Even when you have a good prognosis in front of you, it doesn’t hurt to be aware of the clock. I was taking a whole lot for granted, and this has been quite the smack. And right now, I have a whole lot of rats who deserve a bit better from me, so I’m going to go and make them one hell of a salad. :D

A Diverse Eye Chart.

Click for GIANT size.

Click for GIANT size.

This amazing eye chart was put together by George Mayerle, in 1907.

This fantastic eye chart — measuring 22 by 28 inches with a positive version on one side and negative on the other — is the work of German optometrist and American Optometric Association member George Mayerle, who was working in San Francisco at end of the nineteenth century, just when optometry was beginning to professionalise. The chart was a culmination of his many years of practice and, according to Mayerle, its distinctive international angle served also to reflect the diversity and immigration which lay at the heart of the city in which he worked. At the time it was advertised as “the only chart published that can be used by people of any nationality”. Stephen P. Rice, from the National Library of Medicine (who house this copy presented here), explains just how throughly thought through the different aspects of the chart were as regards the aim to be as inclusive as possible:

Running through the middle of the chart, the seven vertical panels test for acuity of vision with characters in the Roman alphabet (for English, German, and other European readers) and also in Japanese, Chinese, Russian, and Hebrew. A panel in the center replaces the alphabetic characters with symbols for children and adults who were illiterate or who could not read any of the other writing systems offered. Directly above the center panel is a version of the radiant dial that tests for astigmatism. On either side of that are lines that test the muscular strength of the eyes. Finally, across the bottom, boxes test for color vision, a feature intended especially (according to one advertisement) for those working on railroads and steamboats.

You can also see and download this wonderful chart here.  Via The Public Domain.

Cancer Chronicles 3: The Naming.

It’s amazing how one thing can make such a big difference. In my case, stomach muscle. That’s sliced in order to do the colostomy, and it’s sheer agony to force that muscle into action, and there’s no choice about that, either. You can’t just lie flat for the time it takes to heal. Well, I suppose you could, but that’s not me, and I don’t like catheters. Anyroad, while you’re still in hospital, the mass amount of drugs helps to blunt the pain a bit when you have to get into a sitting or standing position. Once you’re home, it’s a symphony of contortion and pain trying to figure out the easiest way to get yourself sitting or standing. The injured and screaming stomach muscle, along with the stoma, feels incredibly heavy, you feel very weighed down. I’m 10 days out now, and the stomach muscle still feels sore, like it would after a heavy workout, but it’s a world of difference, being able to sit up, stand up straight, and be able to get into and out of bed without mass problems. I don’t feel weighted down, either. So. Much. Better.

I’m finding a need to hang on to my sense of humour with everything I have. Still on a lot of fart humour here. Makes me feel very juvenile, but that’s okay. Better than feeling ancient. So, as we’ll be living together quite a while, I figured it was time to name my stoma. Yeah, yeah, it’s silly. I don’t care. I have this very old name book, and I was flipping through, when a meaning caught my eye and made me laugh: helmeted battle maid. I looked down at my stoma, freshly bagged, and thought “that’s perfect!” The name? Grimhild. Seriously perfect. Out of curiosity, I looked Grimhild up – turns out in any incarnation, she wasn’t a nice lady type. That works too, because I am not feeling at all nice towards this part of me gone rogue.

Things get better when you get your appetite back, too. This took me quite a time, I didn’t have much appetite at all until a couple of days ago, and eating small amounts throughout the day/evening works best for me, rather than trying to do standard meals. I’ve also learned it’s best to be very fluid when it comes to sleep. This isn’t an option for everyone, especially those who want to get back to work; but I’ve found I often just can’t get to sleep when I want, so whenever I feel like I could nod off, I lay down and sleep for as long as I need. So far, that’s keeping me feeling fair energetic.

Now, I do believe Grimhild is making noises along the lines of ‘feed me’, so breakfast it is.

Cancer Chronicles 2: The Farting.

Cartoon by Mark Ewbie.

One thing you get to contemplate with a colostomy is being turned into a fart factory. I have not yet ventured out and about with my new arrangement; I’m waiting for the stoma swelling to go down one of these days. Even then, it will be interesting. The very first time you fart after having an ostomy is a strange sensation, a wrong sensation. The gas moves in the wrong direction, and it’s a bit of a shock, that first fart. You start to go into the autoclench before you realize that won’t help, and you have no way to clench on farts which are on the upside.

And then there’s the ballooning. If you expel a good amount of gas, your bag balloons up, and you have to bleed it to get the gas out. At least in this, you have a choice as to whether or not you’ll be inflicting your bag o’ farts on the unwitting. I have to say, it would be very mean to do so, but if it’s someone you don’t like, well…

You do adjust very quickly, after the first fart shock; when you feel one coming on, your hand immediately goes over your stoma while you try to look innocent. Right now, I can only envision myself out and about while clutching a pillow to my abdomen, so I think it will be a while before I make that first public appearance anywhere. Long car rides are a horrorshow of discomfort and peak level gas production. It’s recommended that when a long drive is necessary, that you pause and get out to stretch one or two times if you have an ostomy. There’s no particular reason given, but I am now certain this is so you can sneakily bleed the gas out of your bag without asphyxiating your driver. :D

Also, having an ostomy does not turn you into Pepé Le Pew – there’s no stench wafting about your person. As long as your bag is properly sealed, you’re fine. If you’re on the paranoid side about such things though, there are filters and such available. With an ostomy, you’re more in control of your farting, which is kinda nice. You also have the advantage of a weapons grade tool to chase away unwanted visitors, like Jehovah Witnesses. ;)

And today, I’m going to make things so much worse for myself, because I have a craving for refried beans. Well, it’s just me, the dogs, cats, and rats. And now, I can truly relate to He-Gassen. And I encourage everyone to relate their fave fart stories.

Cancer Chronicles 1.

CN: icky medical stuff. If you’re sensitive, don’t read.

Sore. Punctured. Bruised. Discoloured. I’m 7 days out from diagnosis, 6 days out from surgery. My protruding gut is still very swollen, and it feels so damn heavy. It’s difficult to walk with a straight back. My stomach muscles screech in protest over normal movements. Not so normal now. I feel…limited.

Today, I showered, and soaked off all the steri-strips and caked blood. Then it was time for a bag change. The instructions all say to rinse the old bag, then put it in a plastic baggie, seal it, then put that in a second baggie. They come with the stigma and shame included. I rinsed mine out and tossed it in the trash. There is a sense of revulsion; of a loss of control. I expect that will lessen with practice and experience. I don’t even know how to describe what it’s like, gently cleaning off an internal organ.

It hit early this morning – for the first time in my life, I feel old. Frail. I despise feeling this way. Somewhere, under the weight of this, is my usual self, but I don’t feel as though I can shift this density off. I know I need to eat, but I can’t find my appetite. I do have the perfect excuse to over indulge in ice cream though.

Patience is not a virtue I possess; I hate all the waiting. I won’t even see the radiation therapy Doc until 1/15. I just want this done. I want to rip out this part of me gone rogue, stomp it to death and get back to my life. I want my gut back on the inside where it belongs. This is all going to take so damn long.

My hair keeps trailing through my thoughts. How long do I try to keep it? Do I hope it doesn’t start falling out during radiation therapy? Can I manage to keep it until chemo starts? I don’t know, but the thought of losing my hair is bugging me more and more. I know it’s a minor thing; hair grows back. Still, this is what I get stuck on – having to surrender those 39 inches of hair.

I need to get my studio cleaned up, because I’ll have to start painting soon, it’s the only emotional outlet I have. Ideas flit in and out, nothing has settled yet. Feeling like broken pieces of coloured glass; there’s no coherence yet, the brighter colours subsumed by a muddied swirl of black, maroon, and purple, with threads of brightly spilled blood throughout.

I won’t be inflicting these chronicles on you all too often, just as the mood and need strike.

ETA: I put my rings back on. I was instructed to remove all jewelry for the colonoscopy, so I did, and then I ended up in hospital for four days. I thought about putting them back on when I got home, but just let them lie. I shouldn’t have done that, because nekkid fingers aren’t me. I think I need some new rings. Yep, I do.  The little things, they aren’t so little.