I'm not going to go all Patch Adams on you, but if I did you'd have permission to kill me, as you have permission to kill Robin Williams now. I will be producing a Cancer Comic that I'd like to mail (for free) to cancer patients and infusion rooms. The comic book will be called "Terminally Illin'", and will follow Cancer Girl through the hilarities of vomit, bald heads, mutant bunny-rabbit-killing machines, et al. I will be emailing some of you soon with details.

Hilarious things that have happened to me:

-I was so drugged up once and vomiting my brains out that I thought the toliet was talking to me, kind of like Peewee's Playhouse.

-All of my nose hair fell out. This seems inconsequential, but I didn't have boogers for like 8 months and kind of missed them.

-I camped out on the couch for weeks because I couldn't walk. My sister's little Yorkie terrier walked up to the end of the couch and peed on my bald head. FML.

-I traveled into my own body with my battlecat via ultra-high radiation beams and sought out to destroy the Tumornator (tm) and his army of cuteness.

One of those things may or may not have happened. So, If you send me your email, I will update you on the progress of the comic, donation incentives, and hopefully a free copy when we're through!



gurgle... I'll be back. (I hope not really)

I was in the running for a hemipelvectomy but I chose radiation and that (thankfully) worked for the time being. Even so, the thought of becoming an amputee, even if it is just part of your pelvis, is terrifying.

I've found a great resource for those facing an amputation due to cancer:

http://www.hphdhelp.org/default.htm


They've even got a support group. Check it out!

It's all good.

Every time I go to the hospital it's like walking into battle with a butterknife. I become helpless. Literally, the sight of the word "infusion" displayed in bold letters on the back wall caused tears to well up in my eyes. This visit was much calmer than last time, though, partially because I was prepared for my feelings, and partially because I had a comforting shoulder to lean on.

CT results are N.E.D. My scan is showing improvement of the inflammation that radiation has caused. All looks good. My oncologist won't let me take my port out until the next scan in January.

All looks good...

The physical seems to be healing faster than the psychological. I'm trying my best. It's hard watching my Ewing's friends fall; I feel guilty for being so lucky. I wish there was more I could do, I wish I could change things for all of us.

I've recently organized all of the self portraits I took during treatment and have posted them to my FLICKR. It's interesting to see my range of emotion... the cute to the terribly ill. You can see a weight in my eyes during the chemo sessions. My eyes look like anvils. Perhaps my documentation will help some of you... look! You're not the only one who has had a disgustingly mangy half-bald head.

My friend and I are working on an art project to raise money and enrich the experience of other cancer patients. Remember Cancer Girl? We want to make her into a full-length comic that will give you something hilarious and uplifting to read while getting poison pumped into you. I remember my attention span being shit when I was getting my chemo... a comic would have been perfect.

Let me know if any of you would like to be involved in any way.

I hope you all are doing well!

Everything will be Alright.

No word yet on test results.

I found out Friday that one of my Ewing's buddies died. Not "passed away" or "went to a better place", but stopped-breathing-doesn't-exist-as-a-living-being DEAD. We went through treatment together, relaying philosophy on illness, life, and death. We both subscribed to the Taoist notion of "go with the flow", as it were. When he started learning the piano, I followed suit. We were both stong and vegetarian and cynnical twenty-somethings. I had no doubt he would be fine.

If you are lucky enough to be initiated into the Cult of Cancer, your brethren will soon become your support system, your best friends, your partners in chemo crime. And, inevitably, some of them will die on you, and you have to accept it.

I am in the midst of mourning for my cancer companions, to whom I relate in experience more than anyone else, more than my best of friends, more than my own family. I think of you every day. You live inside me now, in my thoughts and actions henceforth. I live for you. You are me.



Everything will be alright.

D-Day or CT-Day?

My 6 month scan is tomorrow.

I am nervous but the prozac+wellbutrin combo is making me pleasantly detached.

I am happy with the present, I do not want to go back.

mmmm my dinner is going to be a barium shake...


wish me luck.

FUCK CANCER.

My heart goes out to Ray tonight. I hate my bones and they hate me.

www.givecancerthebird.org

Almost Forgot.

Janell emailed me quite some time ago about LiveStrong day, which is apparently today, and meant to celebrate unity on the cancer front. Now... I don't like Days; I mean, why don't we all just have a Day everyday, a Day for the morbidly obese, a Day celebrating my first poo, etcetera etcetera.

But I do like Janell so I will post. The LiveStrong org has some great scholarships for young adults, so kudos to Lance. And of course, I'm all for cancer unity. I don't have the balls to make a joke, but then, neither does he.


P.S. I declare morbidly obese day tomorrow, the 3rd. Free cream puff!