‘You’re emancipated.’ M announced.
‘Cool, does that mean you’ll unshackle me and take the potato sack off my head?’ I replied.
He corrected his statement.
‘Sorry, I meant ‘emaciated’. You’re emaciated. Oh and you’ve got wrinkly old lady armpits too.’
I found these observations both complimentary and contemptuous.
Luckily for M my short term memory’s shot so I won’t recall such audacity tomorrow.
On another note, the first chemo wagon rolled into town 3 days earlier than planned. I’d postponed and procrastinated but eventually threw down arms and surrendered.
It’s been a grim experience.
Surgery – Walk in the park.
Radiation – Piece of cake.
Chemo – Goddamn fucking hideous.
And no intravenous fiddling-with for me. There’s only one toxic cocktail sanctioned to annihilate Bambi.
Firstly, don’t eat for 2 hours. Easy as no longer find joy in food.
Then dissolve foul pill on tongue and wait an hour.
Finish off with complex combo of chemical weapons.
Go to bed and trust you don’t spend the night puking shitting dying on bathroom floor.
Other distasteful side effects crop up.
Curious hallucinogenic dreams.
We were way back in time circa 1977. Sid Vicious was cleaning my kitchen whilst humming to God Save The Queen on the wireless.
M walked in and announced he’d sent a photo to Penthouse to be included on the Readers Wives page.
The image depicted me skiing off-piste in Zermatt, wearing nothing but a bobble hat and a pair of giant green knickers… ‘FUCK’ printed on the vajuju and ‘CANCER’ on the butt. Not altogether porn but unpleasant enough. Especially as in reality I struggle to get down a blue run.
Five days a month now of this stomach-churning fun and games for as long as my body (and mind) endures.
But as the saying goes…
Never say die.