Couch Friday

IHOP with teens the other day.

The Dadaism of my life now manifests inside the vortex of this thing called chemo. 

I've learned some things:

1. People who are so unlucky as to have to "do chemo" oh my freaking god there but for the grace of god but please not me - you know, THOSE PEOPLE  - are not actually OTHER people, they are you and me and that cool mom you see at school and the checker at HEB, and the guy that plays basketball pretty nicely in 11th grade. And your neighbor that doesn't bring her trashcan back up in time, and a teacher you know who can sometimes be strict but then sometimes doesn't even notice when the kids turn stuff in or not, and one of your friends you haven't talked to in a while, and your best friend, oh my God and that guy you always see running around Town Lake, and the person folding shirts at The Gap. They are us. Regular boring people. We.

In the words of the Rolling Stones

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down
Sometimes I'm fallin' on the ground
Now look here, baby, it sure looks sweet.

2. Chemopoisontherapy untherapeutically makes your eyes water using two to seventy seven methods, many of which I've shared but one I am learning now: it/they/evil either irritates or perhaps kills the department of tears or something. In your eyes. The result is a constant stream of water running down my face from mes deux yeux bleu. So if you see me crying I may not be. This may be migrating to my nose so I may become more faucety than normal. Koehlerlike. No I don't have a cold or allergies. Two fun facts: a) I'm the only person in Austin with NO seasonal allergies; b) despite being on immune system-sucking chemo I have not gotten a cold or the flu or the crud so far this fall despite living amongst cruddy folks. I must have a cast-iron immune system. Maybe I should gut out cancer with no meds?

3. Some people cannot handle the word or concept or person of cancer.

4. The actual GETTING of "getting chemo" - the actual day the drips drip into you intravenously is not the important day - it's not a big deal day or event. I mean other than having a two inch spear stabbed into your chest which is banana baobab peel surreal but you get over it - that day does not hurt or sicken. It's the days (and days) after - and the fascinatingly unreal idea that a few cups of liquid can cause agony 11 days in a row - that's what hurts.

5. In between rounds you can catch your breath. Kind of. But then depression sets in. This annoys everyone around you because after all they're human. This is hard on everyone. I am sorry for this - my silly teen/tween daughters and vacuuming cooking driving caring for me 24/7 sweet husband surely did not sign up to cohabitate with a bald super cranky Louis Blacklike creature. Well we shall carry on on our Martian green unmarked Appalachian Trail - if we started at the top we must be at about, oh say, parallel to Concord or so. 

6. Chemo dulls. Medicine does not affect or work very well. Alcohol does not intoxicate. I honestly believe I could snort heroin and it'd not do much. Everything flattens. The ends of my actual nerves are dying - my toes and fingers don't feel, in the active sense, very well. My myelin sheath may be melting. My taste buds are off even now near the tail end of my round where I'm feeling my best (best of this new chemo world - about 73.56 % ok). When I'm hungry it's a little hungry, when food is good it's a small bit good. It's all under glass - a bell jar. Sylvia knew. It's  physical depression. But wait - the mind is physical and the body and mind are the same. You knew that, right? Well then it's depression. I see this. 

7. Many people are deep and wide with empathy and love in a starry way and they are helping me.

Those are some things I've learned.