PORT-A-PARTY

I had my Chemo Port put in today. 

“A chemotherapy port (also known as a port-a-cath) is a small devise that is implanted under your skin to allow easy access to your bloodstream. A port can be used to draw blood and infuse chemotherapy drugs.”*

It looks rather dramatic right now as it’s covered in bandages, but, when they're taken off, my Port will look like one of Lady Gaga’s horns. I’m thinking I can start a fashion trend. Make them in different shapes; Initials; Celtic designs; Hebrew letters and Chinese symbols. I could insert a magnet into them, so you could bling your bump. I imagine my best seller will be the Cancer Ribbon shape. I mean what do you get the breast cancer victim who already has all the pink paraphernalia Cancer Month can churn out? A ribbon port. Coming soon to a Walmart near you.

* About.com

HAIR SHOPPING. DOES IT COME IN PRADA?

There's a special section of my hospital devoted to wigs. They have 2 lovely ladies who work there. One is a wig expert, a Wigologist who sews, adjusts, fits and prepares the wig to your exact skull measurements and specifications. For the record I have a tiny head, the words: "like a child" were thrown around a few times. The other lady is there to style and cut your wig once it's ready. You can choose synthetic or human hair. It's a personal preference, but I felt human was too hot n' heavy for my teeny, weeny, little skull. These wigs ain't cheap. Mine is costing close to $650 and that's with 40% off because I'm having my Chemo at the hospital. Medical aid isn't paying. This is coming right out of my shoe money. Nog a side effect of Chemo, having to shop at Payless. Shudder.

The Wigologist. 

Hollywood

Too much? 

Blonde

Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?

I don't think so.

FRIENDS WITHOUT BENEFITS

I've noticed a trend starting among my friends. If they're feeling down, sick or are dealing with major life issues, they feel guilty because they don't have Cancer. You know Life goes on. You are entitled to your problems and yes, things could be worse, but that won't make your situation any better. The backside to this issue (and it's more Kardashian, than Kylie) is that my friends don't want to talk about their problems to me. They reckon I have enough of my own. Truth is; I would so much rather talk about their issues than mine. I'm sick of talking about Cancer, my patchwork boobs, my dead nipple (more on that at another time), what I'll be doing at the hospital today (for the record, I'm having a port put in), blah, blah, blah. I'm not sick of writing about it, so you can catch up on how I'm doing right here. And in return, share what's happening in your lives. Friendship is symbiotic. I can't live without my friends but they can live without my cancer.

EXIT THROUGH THE PINK RIBBON GIFT STORE

Yesterday my mother and I went on a tour of the Cancer Ward. Our guide was a nurse, dressed in the appropriate nurse tour-guide outfit: scrubs. I must say as far as tours go, I've had worse. She politely pointed out all the major attractions and points of interest. "This is the pharmacy." Aaah yes, never would have guessed had it not been for the big sign across the window that says PHARMACY. "This is the waiting room." Take a picture Mum. "Would you like a glass of water?" Hear that Mum? We get a free glass of water. Only gripe is the plastic glass does not have any pink ribbon promotional branding and thus cannot be used as a gift. 

Then the fun part of the tour ended. We were ushered into a small room for Chemo 101. Basically Chemo 101 is an hour-long, 4D, interactive experience that will scare the shit out of you. You're given page after page, brochure after brochure of really, really, asteroid is hitting in 10 minutes bad news. Firstly she tells you which Chemo drugs you're getting. I'm getting a lovely cocktail of Taxotere and Cytoxan with some Neulasta as garnish because they can't stick a cocktail umbrella into your Chemo port. Nurse Psychopath then explains all the side effects. I will lose my hair, be fatigued, have nausea and vomiting, poor appetite and/or weight gain. I may have swelling, mouth sores, constipation, diarrhea, black poop, red wee, nail fallout, anemia, Chemo fog, infection, bleeding, pain and blood clots. I am to avoid crowded places, spicy food and my weekly pedicure. But you know what I won't have...Cancer. 

Shell-shocked we're taken to the main part of the tour. The actual Chemo ward. "This is where the magic happens" smiles Nurse Gladitsnotme. Okay she didn't really say that, but you could tell she's been dying to. She points out The Chair by Lazy Boy. The IV Pole by Big Medical Business, The Visitor Chair by Chemo Rooms To Go and the Fluffy Sock by unknown artist. Fascinating. 

Our tour ends with Nurse Sunshine bidding us farewell. "Comeback soon y'all." Yes we'll be back. Thursday to be precise. But only because our camera phone dies and we really, truly want a shot of The Fluffy Sock.  

AT THE BEEP PLEASE FUCK OFF

I've just received a message from my Cancer Care practice. An automated voice reminding me that I have an appointment on Monday. Press 1 to confirm. Done. "Thank you. We're looking forward to seeing you." WTF? Really, really? Because I'd rather sit down with Bashar al-Assad and Robert Mugabe for tea and scones than see you guys. No offense. But I'm not coming in for those 2012 Halloween Hershey's Kisses you have in the jar at reception. I'm coming in for poison I'd rather not have. I'll press your 1. But I do not look forward to seeing you. 

I DIGIS YOUR WIGIS

I have a very dear friend (who has had his own battles with cancer but that's his story) we call Wigis. When he was at school it was 'The thing' to add 'is' to every word. sois youis wouldis talkis likeis thesis. Wig (that's what we call him now) had a lot of hair and his friends would tease him that it looked like a wig. So it became "I digis your wigis." And, as names do, it stuck. One of the first thoughts that popped into my head when I found out I would lose my hair was; "I wonder if I'll digis my wigis?"

I have already decided to shave my head. The slow, chernobyl-like fallout would be too devastating for me to endure. And those head ice-caps sound like medieval, ice-cream headache induced torture. I haven't worked out if I'll have the guts for rock bald ala Robin Roberts, wear one of those cap wrap things that come in every color but attractive, or shall I get myself a wigis. 

I broke the Chemo news to my daughters: age 7 going on 30 and 11 going on: "Please don't embarrass me showing up at school bald, please, please, please." They unanimously decided I should don a day-goo Nicki Minaj wig. As if Chemo wasn't enough, i should look like a clown? I went onto the internet to Google wigs. Turns out there are lots of wigs out there and Beyonce's hair is as real as her Obama inauguration anthem. Browsing through wig after wig I found a few I could wear. I could go long, thick, sexy and look like an anemic, buttless Kardashian. According to numerous websites I can look like any celebrity I choose. Turns out all I have to do to look like a Victoria's Secret super model is don a Heidi Klum wig. If only I'd known this years ago. I can go short, medium, spiked, curly or a style I have always lusted after: dead straight. I have options. I may end up with a wigis I digis. 

CHEMOSABI

A week ago I received a call from my oncologist. 

Well let me start at the beginning. Two weeks ago I received a call from my Oncologist. The call was sugar and spice and all things champagne. My Oncoytpe score had come back low. I wasn't going to need Chemo!!! And I'll throw in a few more for dramatic effect !!!!!!. Huge relief, Elaine dance and the aforementioned bubbly. 

Last week's call: Slugs and snails and Doberman/Pitbull tails. 

Turns out I do need Chemo after all. 

I'm not going to go into the long story of why. Just to say that I have a brilliant Oncologist and Pathologist and when they say jump, I say:"Shave it off Fredrik."

This blog will be my Chemo journey. I'm hoping I'll handle it with humor, grace and Wonder Woman strength. I'm hoping to vomit like a super model: no splatter, just pretty little chunks of apple eaten 2 days ago. I'm hoping to be white like Amanda Seyfried, not Casper. I'm hoping to carry off bald ala Natalie Portman rather than Telly Savalas. But if I have moments of pity, loathing, depression and Niagara Falls, so be it. It's Chemo biyatches, not a beach vacation in Miami.