2002-06-24

11:31 a.m.

Nausea. Lovely. I am such a sucker. The last treatment was a distant memory by the time I rolled up for toxic blast number two. How could I forget the nausea? It's day three and if it's like last time it will let up in two more days so I can feel normal again and then go back for more punishment.

I have been saying "I am a quarter way through" to friends and family but I don't think they see the desperation. Most people close to me are pleased to think about my suffering divided up into fractions and neat little parts. Chunked off - chemo cycles makes for managable Martha "good thing" coping. Chip away warrior of cancer! How can people not know that quarter way through or one treatment left - it means only discomfort to me.

In our refrigerator is a pungent chicken gyro with one bite missing. D, who is part of the intricate aggitation conspiracy, convienently forgot to take the repulsive vomit-pita to work. Now when I open up the refrigerator door I am blasted with garlic and cucumber jizz sauce that adheres to my scent memory for hours! I can barely get to my life-affirming nutrients trapped inside my orange juice containter due to this tragedy.

I suffer. Alone. Waiting for the next cycle so I can alert everyone to my treatment fraction status. My port is all puffy with possibly some dramtic infection that needs immediate medical attention. Sadly, I can't walk by the refrigerator to get to my car. I can only hope this is not my last entry.

And to think this time last year I was concerned about wedge-style footwear.

2002-06-21

3:13 p.m.

New Chemo fashion. The Sea Band!

I think these little sportsters are working and - bonus - it's playing off the never-out-of-style urban action fitness look. The bands I am wearing are on loan so I don't know if I should try to "personalize" them with any patches, glitter or ink pen graffiti.

I slapped the bands on after I woke up from my post-dose nap. This morning went much faster thanks to my new "insta-port". I can't believe the nurses don't even flinch at my fresh wound. They had to push it around and feel for the spot to shove the needle in. I grabbed the nurses arm. I have lost my pain tolerance four blood draws ago. It's going to be a rough ride for the next three months.

When the lab nurse tried to take blood out of my arm I accidently kicked off my right shoe in a fit of pain. Drama. I teared up and begged her to just poke my finger. That was a mistake that made itself known by squeegie and scrape number twenty-three.

No more blood - can't they just swab something? Any orafice will do.

We watched "Orange County" on the laptop. I rented some facy flick with a special comments sections by the famous "gaze film theorist" Laura Mulvey but I was in no mood for some bourgeoisie movie shit this morning so I turned to Jack Black. Although he is a man that is not out of range for advanced academic study. I think about one of my film professors who studied "Highlander" fans for a year. Pop culture study is a rich field waiting to be sowed by fertile minds.

I thought the film was the funniest thing I ever saw. But then again I was looking for a serious distraction from the toxic drip going into my new sci-fi insta-port in my chest. So I would say it was enjoyable.

I am happy to have my new fashion and will probably pass out in a few minutes.

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