So I bitched and moaned about how tired I was at the end of my first cycle of chemo and then tried to turn the tables by saying how fortunate I was in the grand scheme of things. What a piece of shit thing to do, trying to scam sympathy like that…
On a positive, the last post broke records for reading both in terms of numbers and countries reached. The fact that my blog was read in Kazakhstan on the one hand filled me with joy, knowing that my good mate was there for work, and on the other hand crushed any hope that a Kazakhstani child had built a potassium (it’s their largest export) powered modem/router and was viewing my blog.
Anyways, this week has been good. Fuck it, it’s been GREAT. All of the shitty stuff Miguel did to me in terms of symptoms, has gone. Not better. Not more manageable. Fucking. Gone!
Doing a normal shit has never been so liberating.
The fact that I rebounded so quickly and consistently from such a low (I say that acknowledging that at present I’ve barely joined the VIP queue to get into hell, let alone experiencing any of its layers) and have maintained that level of awesomeness has made me feel bad.
‘Bad’, I hear you say. ‘What a fucktard’ is another thing I imagine is being bandied about, if not by the readers of this blog, then certainly by those fellow unfortunates who are presently walking the same (same same but different) path to me, and who glare at me with green eyes due to my portacath as opposed to the web of tubes encompassing their arms.
I feel terrible that when I go to have Optimus removed and the nurses ask me how I am, I reply ‘Great’. And not just because I’m getting rid of an figurative anchor, but because that’s how I actually felt.
Sure, the end of that week was shitty: I struggled to get off the ground; I sat in the shower for a good 20 minutes trying to stand up; and I don’t really remember Saturday.
But this week has been good. Really. Fucking. Good. So good I feel like a fucking sham!
The week culminated in work drinks, like most weeks do. Nothing unusual other than the fact that I felt normal, whatever the fuck that is, compared to a deflated clowns balloon the week before.
It was great. One of my colleagues commented that I didn’t look unwell, which is something that I am fortunate to still have in my arsenal. I will unlikely be so fortunate in the future.
And so I had a beer. And then another. And more still.
And I might feel it tomorrow, or the day after. But if if I do, I suspect it pales into insignificance when compared to the next month of treatment that kicks off on Monday.
I’ll sign off with a quote by Helen Keller, kindly passed on by my wife’s cousin:
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.
I’m a ranga and thus have no soul. This blog debunks any myth that I’m anything resembling quiet. But at the end of this caper, maybe I’ll have some character, as opposed to being one.
Bring on the storm…