THE FOGGY FOG. WITH APOLOGIES TO DORA THE EXPLORER.

A friend of mine suggested I write my next blog about what Chemo does to your sex life. After trying a few times I concluded it would be the shortest blog in history. There is nothing to write about. So we're moving on. Sorry Rinkie. 

I have Chemo Fog. A little studied side effect of Chemo that renders your mind stupid. Dumb as, hmm I had something clever to put in here but I forget. Put it this way: If I had to go out to dinner with Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson and the whole team at Fox News I would be the stupidest person there.

I've twice walked into my laundry room today and completely forgot why I was in there. So obviously Chemo brain does have some merits. But for the most part it's a bit troublesome. I have long periods where I sit and stare at a wall trying to recall what I was meant to be doing. The wall gives no answers. I stare some more. These walls do not speak. If they did they'd tell me where to find my keys/wallet/bag so that I can go out and drive around aimlessly trying to recall where I'm driving to. 

Names are impossible. I write them down in my phone with a detailed description of the person. Husband: Noel. Tall guy 6.8. Makes me coffee in the morning. We share 2 children and a dog.

But where it gets really hard is when I sit down to help my 7yr old with her homework. I have a theory. America is now actively competing with the cleverer nations of the world because somewhere between: Computers help you learn to Computers have Angry Birds, we've lost our standing as one of the world's top 5 clever kid countries. And now they're piling it on to catch up. Well I can't do most of her homework. No, I'm not smarter than a 5th grader, I'm stoopider than a 2nd grader. Last night's homework she had to identity the following: Triangle, quadrilateral, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, nonagon and decagon. I knew triangle and octagon, because of Octomom, but the rest I had to google. I blame Chemo Fog. I'm writing to Obama asking that all moms and dads going through Chemo please be excused from homework for the duration. 

It used to be that I could do the 5-things-at-once mom thing. I'm down to one. I can no longer talk, type, make dinner, chat on Whatsapp and pour myself a whisky at the same time. Multi-tasking is a thing of the past. I know what it's like to be a man. 

ALMOST BALD

Joan Rivers is one of my all-time favorite comedians. She has a documentary called: "A piece of work" which highlights just how much work being funny actually is. She works her ass off at funny. Ok, she gets it surgically worked off, but that would be a joke to her. She writes down every single joke she has ever written on a card and catalogs them in an extensive, alphabetized, wit-filled cabinet. P being her largest section. 

I bring this up because it's hard to be funny or make light of a situation that is gut-wrenchingly painful. You have to work at it. 

My wrecking ball to the heart came last night. I was forced to shave down my hair to a near bald becuase it was falling out everywhere: bed; cushions; towels; tables and food. Campbell's Vegetable and Hair soup is not my favorite flavor. Andy Warhol may have missed the ultimate social commentary there, but I digress. 

Knowing this blog is meant to be light-hearted and uplifting I'm choosing to channel Ms. Rivers. She would take one look at my picture and make some wildly uncomfortable, inappropriate joke like: "She looks like she just got liberated from Auschwitz." Oh come on, it's what you're all thinking. Or: "She looks like Justin Bieber age 50."

I really do look like a cancer victim now. Full victim. Not the tough/hot chick with a number 2. And so, when I look into the mirror I have 2 choices: cry or think of a fabulous Ms. Rivers quote: "Kelly (Pickler) shaved her head to fight breast cancer. Britney shaved her head because the Slurpee machine broke. (Just something to think about.)" 

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE MENSTRUAL PAINTING

Chemo is pretty shitty. But, as Brian suggests, we should always look on the bright side. So here's my list. 

Bad: Your hair falls out. Good: Brazilians are free. 

Bad: You feel so sick you can't get out of bed. Good: The Jodi Arias trial is taking forever. 

Bad: You can't use Tampax. Good: You can make period paintings on your pads for fun. I recreated Starry Starry Night in red yesterday, considering selling it on Ebay. 

Bad: You can't get a pedicure or a manicure. Good: You don't have to deal with your brutally honest pedicurist: "What's wrong? You look sick." "Why you have no hair? No look good." 

Bad: You neglect your husband. Good: He dotes on you. 

Bad: You neglect your children. Good: You don't have to go to talent night at the school. 

Bad: You can't drink alcohol. Good: You'll be a cheap date when you're done. 

Bad: You can't taste food. Good: Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." And this is your chance to see if it's true. 

Bad: People look at you with pity. Good: You can mess with them by coughing in the elevator. 

Bad: Your hair falls out as you type. Good: It gives you something to type about. 

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T SEE THEM, DOESN'T MEAN THEY'RE NOT OUT TO GET YOU

I've always been a bit of a mysophobe. I fear germs. I see them everywhere; like that kid who sees dead people. It's become worse. I no longer go to movie theaters because I know the person behind me is host to Influenzavirus A through C. If I have to use a public bathroom I do it Madonna style. I wash my hands with OCD frequency. 

Having Chemo takes your phobia to a pathological new level. Your immune system is low. You can't fight germs. You can barely insult them. Your little, white blood warriors have met their Waterloo. And so you have to avoid germs like The Plague. Literally. 

The days following my first Chemo infusion I steered clear of all public places. To me restaurants became Bird Flu hubs; Supermarkets were cesspools of Pulmonary Tuberculosis. Even my kids scared the hell out of me. Because let's face it, kids aren't the most hygienic of people. And, even if you could bathe your kids in sanitizer, you know their friends are still having a jolly good nose pick and then playing clapping games with yours. 

Of course you can't put yourself into a plastic bubble. Although, I did buy those face masks you saw on TV during the H1N1 lets-have-fun-with-the-phobic crisis. Sooner or later you have to venture out. Lucky for me there's that Neulasta shot. It actually elevated my white blood count. So now I have more than I need. Way more. There's a partaay in my body and the white blood cells have invited their whole disease-brawling posse. It's like the Jersey Shore in there, a fight a minute. And I'm all for it. I can go out. I can eat food prepared by someone who may or may not be wearing gloves. I can pump gas. I can handle money. Best of all I can kiss my kids and husband good night. 

Unfortunately white blood cells have a short life-cycle. A partying lifestyle will do that to one. So I'm taking advantage of my Superwoman powers while I still have them. And no evil, viral, fungal or bacterial pathogen is going to take that away from me.  

OFF WITH HER HAIR

Women are obsessed with their hair. I think it's fair to make that a statement and not an assumption. A strong statement. Up there with: The earth is round. Men take their hair semi-seriously, sure, but they know, because they've seen it on their grandfathers, fathers, teachers, coaches, sports heroes and movie heroes that they may lose it. Bruce Willis is why men do not stress their hair.

It's different for woman. We see no bald. We see femininity and hair perpetually linked in a knot of perfectly-coifed updo. When woman on the screen shave their hair it's to come across as androgynous and macho (Sigourney Weaver in Alien; Demi Moore in G.I. Jane) or it's to shed them of every ounce of their femininity and person (a bawling Anne Hathaway in Les Miserables; every hysterical America's Next Top Model girl chosen to receive the buzz chop). Long, flowing, Botticelli locks are THE definitive beauty standard for women. It therefore comes as no surprise to me that some women opt out of Chemo because they fear losing their hair. It's that important to us. 

This brings me to my recent buzz cut. In order to have your wig fitted properly you have to have your hair short enough. Half an inch to be exact. I did it a few days ago. Did I crumble? Did I lay down and die? Oh no not I. Break into massive musical song and dance hair-shearing number. Fade back to blog. I survived. I didn't shed a tear. And when all was said and shorn; I really like my shaved head. I feel tough. I feel cool. I turn up JZ in my Volvo and peace-up sideways to my homegirls in carpool. This mama's got swagger. Whatever that means. 

Of course I'm going to lose the little I have now. It's already started to come out when I towel dry my scalp. Chemo's not letting me off that easy. But when that happens I have a long, flowing, gently-highlighted, thoroughly feminine, JAP wig to don. But that is another blog.  

I'D RATHER BE WATERBOARDED

It's been 5 days since I had my first Chemo infusion. It has not been pretty. Mostly I'm exhausted. I'm really too tired to be typing this. I'm taking long breaks between each sentence for some water and a pep talk from my coach. Then back into the ring, 3 words, Gatorade, rest. 

I have many side effects. But, I shall spare you the long list and cut to the gross bits. Blatant sensationalism I know, but a gal's got to lure her audience in somehow. And, since there is absolutely zero sex happening now, I'm going for blood, violence and pain. 

Eew factor numero uno:

I have blisters in and around my nose. All over. My nose is a dot-to-dot abscess puzzle. Connect them all and you'll have a cankerous, white-headed Miro. If I have to blow my nose, it gets Tarantino bloody. Chemo literally punches you in the face. 

Eew de 2 (Coming soon to a perfume counter near you.) 

My entire neck and chest area is covered in a throbbing, itchy, red rash. It works much as America does. The areas that are blue are calm. But the red spots are unbelievably irritating and menacing. And, they won't go away. I've tried appeasing them by buttering them up with soothing lotion and promising it'll get better this time around. But they don't believe me. They're swollen, angry, demanding all my attention and insisting the other 47% of my body should not share the cream. It's a hard itch to scratch. 

Eew 3 

This one's really for Adam Sandler fans. POOP. If you're not laughing hysterically and making fart noises with your armpit, this Blog has ended for you. Thanks for reading. For the rest of you, and my nephew, I shall continue. I had not pooped in 5 days. Yesterday was my first one. And it was a tiny, pathetic, Cadbury's Whisper of a poop. No, Dr Freud, I am not holding onto my poop like gold. I've long since gotten over those issues. I would simply love a relaxing, free-flowing, zero-pushing guano. Isn't that what everyone wants? 

I'm tiring fast. It's time for a quick nap before my Neulasta (medicine to stimulate healthy, white blood cells and fight infection) starts drilling at my bones with a pneumatic jackhammer. Can't wait to see what next week brings. 

CHEMO IS NO PICNIC.

I had my first day of Chemo yesterday. I don't know why I expected it to be a walk in the park. I think that I had read up so much that I had myself scheduled for IT to hit on day 3 and gradually reduce by day 10, then I would be fine until the next infusion. I even packed a frikkin picnic basket for the day. Such was the extent of my delusion. I was there from 8.30am and last to leave at 6pm. Halfway through the first lot of Chemo drugs I developed an allergic reaction. Watering, sore, red eyes and elevated heart rate. They had to stop the Chemo, give me antihistamines and even more steroids, wait until I was ok and continue on. I developed a chalk-like taste in my mouth and was not hungry in the slightest. My husband and mom throughly enjoyed the picnic lunch. Once home I went straight to sleep and have felt nauseous, crappy and exhausted ever since. On a better day I'll describe the big social scene Thursdays at the Chemo ward are and how loudly Southern families like to talk about their pie and dogs. But not today. Today Chemo is the clear winner.