i am either
been my thing.
~ Sanober Khan
Men choosing women, that be some crazy shit there. Paris, the god credited with starting the Trojan war because he was a wimp and choose the one that offered him the most beautiful woman instead of those who offered dominion over Europe and Asia OR battle skills and wisdom – even those male gods often thought with their dicks. I mean he had to pick between (per the picture):
- the Roman goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare, and the sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy.
- the Roman goddess who was the protector and special counselor of the state.
- the Roman goddess whose functions encompassed love, beauty, desire, sex, fertility, prosperity and victory.
Which is pretty much what every woman is capable of doing individually in a mythological triumvirate.
But me… I am here, at the grand milestone of being half way through chemotherapy. In this special place of being half way done, I am fully done with the first medicinal cocktail known among us cancer hipsters as AC. AC is a shitstorm, one of those (the A) has the nickname of the red devil or the red death and yes, that medication is fucking super strength Kool-aid red. It gets hand injected into you, and is the reason why I succumbed to the port being placed since its superpowers include being able to completely destroy any muscle it comes into contact with, so one little leak and plastic surgery would have been required. It causes all sorts of problems in spite of that.
I stand with that behind me, and the last single spirit, known as T, ahead. T being something that most tolerate a bit better, and I pray, wish , hope, make offerings that I am one of those.
I have lost most of my hair, but not all – and alopecia is a nasty thing but having some hair and some baldness is quite another. I do, with some degree of pride, have an excellently shaped head. For the record, all ones hairy areas tend to lose hair, which is rather interesting to witness.
My superficial body fluids have turned into wax. My eyes water thick goo, my saliva is like syrup, and my sweat is like a coating of candlewax.
I have developed mouth sores, but was able to contain those nasty fuckers whose inauspicious start is as blisters around my mouth which turn into miniature wounds, sensitive to everything.
My nails, fingers and toes, are in a state – they feel as if they are slowly dying and agonizing death.
Cancer is a financial blow, so much so that my family started a gofundme for me. This is something my husband and I are trying to manage, it is so humbling in ways that I am not fully prepared to manage, and most especially not when they decided to start it (which was in the worst days of a chemo cycle), trying to manage handing them the information they needed as I as navigating the dreadful way one feelings as the poison that is chemotherapy starts taking its hold on your whole fucking body; inside, outside, and soulside…. and my immediate family were out camping. I still struggle with this, they love me, they mean to help and so, I have decided to find the grace in this experience. Grace is something that has long eluded me. And if the lesson I am supposed to learn from this stupid fucking cancer is to find grace, then I ….
I can’t finish that sentence, it falls in the depths of despair that chronic illness can put one into if not careful to manage the attitude.
I will leave it to, finding grace.
In other news of this cancerous nature, I am compiling a list (and I hate lists) of:
Bucket list for when my cancer shit storm is over
it includes turning my scars into tattoos, going dancing, going camping, going to Chimayo, returning to Hopi… I am totally taking suggestions!
(and now some music to accompany my state of mind):