Thoughts of an Old Fart

The basket of little candy bits was missing today. Where is my reward? Is it gone because too many people came thru the office looking for sustenance? A health craze? Heaven forbid, the cancer patient needs to eat healthy. Do I now need to bring my own? Don’t they understand that it really is the little things, right now, that help keep sanity on the rise?

I want my candy treat.

Yesterday, I was a walking disaster. Things took it upon themselves to drop, fall, slid, and just run away from me. I caught a box eyeing my shins. Keys fell out of the car unto the pavement. Drinks actually bounced on the floor. Made for spectacular arcs of color across the kitchen walls. Lids landed icky-side down every time. It was getting to be very disturbing.

So far today, it’s only been the missing chocolate fix.

So tomorrow, I have completed my planning session, got a cool purple mould, and made it through the rehearsal. Now radiation treatments start. Chemo was bad. Surgery not any better. Radiation should be a walk in the park. Yeah, if you like to walk at night, in the rain, and taunt the gods of lightening.

Everyone is so unfailingly polite at this place. They weald it like a weapon. I wish someone would crack an off color joke or fart. It makes me feel like a fractious child that needs to be put to bed but is not cooperating. I feel socially clueless in the face of all the sincerity. Should I be making small talk? Should I ask about their weekends? Do I look like a goat caught chewing the door frame? What do they say when I walk out the door? Will they greet me like an old friend when I come back for checkups months from now?

I need my friend Vicki who slaps you upside the head. She tells it like it is but makes you belly laugh until your sides hurt. Many a lunch, we have been “those people”. The ones you wish would either clue you in on the joke or shut up.

I came out into the waiting room and the estrogen level was high. There was a support crew of woman, waiting for their friend. Drinking cups of tea. Skirts and frills and bright colors, head’s together earnestly twittering away.

I must admit, I was a bit jealous. Then, I wasn’t. I have my village, too. Loud laughers. Poke you in the eye jokers. Big bottomed rocker girls… Drinkers of tea, we ain’t. But bigger hearts I dare you to find anywhere else.

So bring it on…

I call cancer the “Disease of Little Indignities”.

Take an MRI for example and pretty quickly your dignity has left the building. It’s a fact. Get over it.

You realize that, yes, they do not make a gown that will cover you or keep you warm. Why do they give you one in the first place? Maybe to keep your hands occupied while trying to desperately not flash the technicians? Entertainment? Was there a sale on and this is what was left?

Then you realize that your underwear is the loudest color, the raggediest, the most unsightly you have, because its the MOST comforting pair you have. You knew it was going to be a long day and the day-glo pink ones are old friends…

Then you start chuckling at the location of windows to dressing rooms. And the blinds are always up.

Then you keep your warm wooly black socks on cause your feet are cold and ick, linoleum.

Then you realize your bladder has now shrunk to the size of your thumbnail. Internal hilarity ensues as you desperately try to flag someone down for the location, while not looking like a lunatic in your day-glo pink undies, too small gown, and black wooly socks, only to turn red, as you realize that its just the door on your right.

So there you stand, in your unsightly day-glo pink underwear, black wooly socks, grasping desperately at the edges of a hideously puke pepto-bismal pink gown because if you sit down, you might flash someone walking by and looking in the blinds-up window.

The tech comes to get you. You make it to the room, (without slipping, flashing, or falling), utter a sigh of relief, and are struck dumbfounded as the teeny tiny little women ask you to hop up on the that very high table. You need to somehow get up there, lay face down, stick your anatomy in the appropriate places, put your arms above your head, and all while not falling off and loosing every last shred of dignity you ever had.

Dignity be damned. There is no way to gracefully accomplish this feat. Day-glo Pink undies. Black wooly socks. Gown flapping in the breeze. You somehow make it onto the table only to poked and prodded into place by random little cold hands. Blanket slapped on top. Ear protection snugged in place. All set. Panic bulb placed in your hands. Admonitions given. DO NOT MOVE. All good? Still alive? Everything good? (How to answer that…). Everyone, but you, leaves the room for their protection. (Hey…)

Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t forget to breathe. Go some place in your head for a while. Hey, I’m in the same position as that super hero from the 80s, who could never get the hang of flying. STOP. Do not chuckle. Don’t move. Go some place else in your head for a while. Hey, sheep have black legs just like my black wooly socks. Picture of a sheep with day-glo pink underwear and white legs. STOP. Do not chuckle. Do not move. Breathe. You all right in there? Wiggle wooly black clad foot. You are doing great. Do not chuckle. Do not move….

Teeny tiny women come in. Now to get off table while chuckling about sheep with day-glo pink underwear and white legs. Teeny tiny little women take panic bulb, move table, remove ear protection, and unceremoniously push and pull you off the table. Gown patted back in place, they herd you back to the changing area while making soothing noises in your general direction.

And, bam, with ears still ringing, feeling worse for wear, you’ve returned to the waiting room in your slightly disheveled street clothes.

Dignity has a new definition.