#meanwhile my irl home being empty af:

[baekuras]

Me: Oh I’ll just do something fun and make some rooms for my ocs in the Sims to get their whole style and stuff down better

Me hours later 2 rooms and a whole house in (and keep in mind-I am the kinda guy who goes ham in the character creator and never really made any builds beside the basic needs being met-ones): this was a mistake

anyhow

send help only 2 of those rooms are for actually relevant characters-the rest is add on (parents and guestroom and also too many bathrooms bc money)

[vonnyphant]

1st Chemo

Oh boy, today did not go as planned. I will be honest with you in a minute, but for now, let’s enjoy the fantasy I had concocted in my head about this moment : 

I wake up in a good mood to fight the Big Bad.

I eat a healthy, responsible meal, I dress sensibly, with access to my port but still warm and stylish and I pick a hat that says ‘maybe I have cancer, but it might just also be that I like whimsical hats, who are you to say?’. It has elephants on it- cute in a kawaii sort of way, and absolutely no flowery grandma pattern in sight. My granny would never.

I put on a smattering of make-up to accent my eyes- not too much because I am not Like That(tm) but just to make myself seem accessible and friendly underneath the hat and the mask covering most of my face. Oh, and earrings, to show the buzzcut did not deminish my feminity.

I am driving to the clinic, I arrive, we all have a hearty laugh as they install me in a luxurious chair in a well-aired but warm enough office room and there’s a drip in (as the blogs say) a lovely shade of pink that matches my hat. I get out my laptop and read some overdue stories people sent me to critique; I might write a chapter or two of my own work, just for bragging rights (’oh, you got writer’s block? I wrote my fic during chemo.’)

I possibly nibble on a healthy snack that I brought in wise foresight. When I get tired of writing, I read a self-help book, use my new sketch book to artistically document this step, write a letter to my kids about how much I love them, or I take out my phone and post a few selfies of me on the drip which show the reality of everything but still manage to look cute. Time flies by. 

Everyone would tell me I am handling this like a hero and call me their inspiration. I go home, pick up the kids, and resume life as normal. I possibly get awarded the nobel peace prize.

Well. Here’s how it really went, with a not so glamourous selfie.

My driver was 5 minutes early and kept the motor running outside. I was still shoveling a not-so-responsible breakfast into my mouth while I combed kids’ hairs and help look for a second sock (I am telling you it was on the couch last night I don’t care if it’s your lucky sock mommy is gonna be late ffs!) I wonder if I am allowed to have a double espresso before chemo. No time, so I leave the house grouchy without coffee.

In the bustle, I forget my phone at home.

I arrive early, and the clinic is still closed. They open on time, but it’ll be a while before they can get to me. I read a few pages of my book, but it’s almost finished and I grumble how I would have time for a quadruple espresso at home if I had known they’d stick me in a waiting room for half an hour.

At the preliminary, they tell me the pain in my arm over the port is normal and expected to be endured for at least another 6 weeks. (Noice). They scold me a bit for looking up blogs on the internet that write about the port being ripped out by a seatbelt or the skin bursting open for no reason. I am at least a little reassured this won’t happen irl.

They show me the lovely office with the chairs- three of them. It’s empty and sunny and well-aired. This is it, I think, my leisure time without the kids. I install myself comfortably and wait for the drip.

Instead, a nurse brings bags of frozen coolpacks, and explains my feet and my hands will be wrapped in them the entire time; 30 minutes before the drip, and during the 1,5 hour infusions. 

It feels like hell. It instantly feels like the way your appendages feel after you spend an hour on the playground listlessly pushing a swing going ‘can we go home yet mommy is so cold and she needs a pee!’. It starts hurting insistently, and after a few minutes I imagine my feet and fingers are turning a purplish shade of black and I look like a soldier in Napoleon’s army stuck in the snow in Russia. (I can’t see my actual feet and hands but the mind is creative like that)

Worst of all- I can’t do anything. No laptop, no book. No art. Just me and my brain. My terrible brain that can’t stop thinking about frostbite and trenches and Tolkien. And the drip isn’t even pink! Why did I wear this hat. This is the longest I have been without my phone in years. I am a literal cold turkey.

Two other patients arrive. I notice with envy they are getting comfortable with their phones and a laptop- they are on a different kind of drip and it looks cozy af.

Meanwhile I think that if I move, one of my toes will break off and I wonder how many I can lose before I lose my grip on the world. A nurse comes and, despite wanting to be the perfect patient, I ask instead if I am really to endure this icicle torture and what they’d say about this in Geneva. (actually, I ask if this isn’t maybe worse than the nerve damage it’s supposed to protect me against)

The nurse is taken aback (which my brain immediately interprets as ‘SHE HATES YOU’) and she tells me patiently (brain: snippishly) that nerve damage is not to be joked with and feeling ‘a little cold’ is uncomfortable but the alternative is losing my fine moter skills and not being able to walk anymore.

I manage to nod until she goes away, then I cry. My perfect smattering of makeup runs and tears drip into my FFPE2 mask. I accept that maybe losing a toe or a finger is worth enduring this because with no sensation in my fingers how would I type, paint, sew, sculpt- without my feet how would I dance? I take off my earrings, because they are starting to hurt and that is, at least, something I can do to make myself feel better.

The ice burn turns numb and I dose off for a little- only half, because the other guests (with their fucking laptops, netflixichilling! All I get is chills) constantly have beeping monitors going on, signifing their drips are ready. Not only do they get to entertain themselves, they are there less long than I am. Oh, and both have a lovely head of hair or very convincible wigs. I tell myself I could spot a wig from a mile and can only conclude they are getting the VIP chemo, that does not make your hair fall out and does not require freezing. Must be privately insured. Another patient arrives, gets a drip, reads his newspaper in comfort, and leaves before I am done. (what an asshole). The only small mercy is that no one tries to chat with me - though I admit me wearing a hat, noise cancelling earmuffs, a mask and runny make up is not very inviting, and my scowl at them probably least of all.

Time passes slowly (and never ‘all at once’ like falling in love in YA fiction).

I am finally done. The needle removal from the port hurts so much I instinctively jerk away and jostle my bad shoulder; which is like pulling away from a spritz of butter from the frying pan with the pan still in your hand, only to launch the entire contents of the pan on yourself in reflex instead. (have you ever done that? because I have). Good times. I get to go home and spend the whole drive home complaining to my father in law. He valiantly tries to cheer me up, failing. I am not inspiring anyone. I am not picking up the kids. I also didn’t write any letters.

I take a sad selfie for documenting sake, take a long hot shower and put myself in bed. I take a nap under 3 blankets, wondering if I’ll ever feel warm again. I am no one’s hero- I am tired and feeling very very sorry for myself.