ideas for my chemo cake tomorrow

because you've all been joking about getting me a cake, right?

"happy chemo... don't ruin it for the rest of us"

"don't puke here pls"

"look it's butter frosting."

And now I've just thought of this random one, if you were getting a cake for a total cunt you could get it in chocolate and write "chocolate kills bitches, sorry."

haha! ok back to mesna and vomiting my brains out.

fundraising 101

I am trying to raise funds in order to get my arse back to SF by the end of the summer.

For the next few weeks I will be selling TONS of women's vintage and designer clothes on Ebay. Please help me out! Most of the clothing is a size 4/6 and shoes are 8/9/10.

And, of course, my vintage is EFFING AWESOME, because it's from my own closet. Some of the 50's/60's dresses are hand sewn with impeccable details.

Prada, Sigerson Morrison, gladiator sandals, german dirndles, bombshell glamour, mod blazers, ETC ETC ETC.

Also... don't make fun of my pictures, hah. It's embarrassing enough as it is.

SHOP!!!

gimpy wimpy

I can't sleep and I'm all fuzzy from opiates.

I've been obsessing over the prospect of surgery lately.

I'm not so worried about the gnarly scar... wouldn't that be fun? I could say I got shanked in prison or jumped into the polar bear cage at the zoo. And walking with a cane... I could make that cool. Maybe. I'll have to get one with an animal head for the handle. No, no, it occured to me that I probably wouldn't be able to walk in heels for quite some time. THAT is what bums me out. My fucking shoe collection.

Let me explain before you conclude that I'm the world's pettiest cancer patient. With sexuality comes power, a certain vital sense of control, that is utterly wiped out by cancer treatment. I can't hide behind my femininity like I used to. I can't brush my hair over my eyes. My curves are gone. I can't even fuck right now (chemo apparently restores virginity, fyi, something my doctors failed to tell me about). My only consolation, really, is "faking it" with wigs and dresses and heels, praying it all comes back to me once my body heals. Like riding a bicycle, right?

So don't take away my stilettos, cancer, because I really don't think I can handle the cruel cruel world of comfort footwear.

On a totally unrelated note, Grass Valley is surprisingly beautiful. Places like these make it all worthwhile, don't you think?

The trick is to minimize wind resistance.

Sarcoma Fun Run, 3/22/09



It really was fun, I'm not gonna lie. You wouldn't think "sarcoma" and "fun" deserved to be in the same title together, but alas, there it was. We arrived about an hour late and sauntered around Golden Gate Park for the afternoon. The Fun Run didn't cure my cancer, though, and certainly didn't heighten my awareness of sarcoma. I'm already pretty aware. All I got was a pot cookie and a sunburn. it's cool though.

They ran out of free t-shirts by the time we arrived, and there was this wee little man that was furious he wouldn't get his shirt. How else would anybody know he was there? WHY DO IT WITHOUT A FREE T SHIRT?? I know little man, I was thinking the same thing. We ran into him again later and he complained that he'd gotten lost and taken a cab to the finish line. Such a grumpy little thing. I wonder if his nipples were chafing? I bet that's it. I'd be grumpy too.



Thank you Vicki and Rach, you are both amazing.

i have never been.
so heartbroken.
in all of my life.

as i am at this moment.

i was incredibly foolish to be happy for the end, so stupid stupid stupid for waking up today with a smile on my face.

i broke down and started hysterically sobbing in the waiting room, everyone either staring at me or pretending not to notice, begging the doctor, "please, PLEASE give me chemo this week, it's my last, pleeeaseeee."

no such luck.

the last week

the sun'll come out

tomorrow

bet your bottom dollar

that tomorrow

there'll be chemooooo

love your suffering

You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation... and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else.

Thrush before the last chemo and a general malaise. Sometimes my mind forgets that I'm sick, seriously so, and calls my body to action, to the normal life, the life of errands and jobs and making other people happy. My body usually concedes until it has reached its limit, raising the white flag of fever, of aching bones. My body, my body. I must learn to listen to my body before all else.

I think of my last chemo and begin to cry, the weight of the experience is overwhelming. On one hand, I understand that millions have gone through treatment before me, I am not special, this is no big deal. This is life.

On the other, I think about the special hell that I have been banished to within my body for the past six months. The feeling of cellular betrayal, your insides crimping and dying and spasming. The daily heaving, blood coming out of every orifice, heart pounding the rest of your body into submission. The sickly smell of mesna, the many, many sleepless nights thinking about death, wondering how it feels, wondering if it will be in a hospital bed just like the hundreds you've laid in before. Wondering if it will be sooner rather than later. The incredible quiet that envelopes everything when you realize you are alone inside your body, fighting with it, dying with it.

I dare not delve any deeper, I'd rather just forget it all.

ortho surgeon consultation on May 4th. We'll decide if I need to lose a hip in addition to all of this other nonsense.

until then, last week of chemo!

A year ago I found Joseph Pintauro's The Rabbit Box in a rubbish bin at the Alameda flea market. I remember the date, April 6th, because I was suffering from a particularly bad broken heart and the book's surreal message of Springtime resurrection was a great comfort to me. It is the most cherished book I own. HERE is the original post.

How fitting that I receive The Magic Box almost exactly a year later. It's beautiful, just like The Rabbit Box, with colorful, irreverent imagery by Norman Laliberte. The subject matter- death, autumn, reflection- is particularly relevant to my cancer experience. Oh, to someday collect all four.






This little passage in particular spoke to me, probably because of all of those smiles shared with friends on roller coasters. I can't think of any feeling so worthy of remembering. Love and roller coasters, that's all one really needs.

More on my FLICKR.

let's escape.

I wrote this in a journal two years ago:

promises, falsetto.

i am tired
of false hope and weather balloons- unmanned vehicles of imagination sent up and mistaken for something more extraordinary, until gravity's hands intervene.

This may have only meaning to me, but I think I'm able to spot the weather balloons now. And as tempting as flying saucers are, those beautiful spectacles that make your mind sift and turn, be wary of sticking your head up into the clouds with them. Chances are they're not there for the same reasons as you.

Now that I have sufficiently confused you, what a weekend.

Hiking along the beach, baby seal rescue, hippie hill bongo watch, kurt cobain karaoke, many an emotion, fever of 103 and a glorious trip to the ER to top it all off. I live a fairly interesting life when I'm not deathly ill.

Even with the fever I was having a better time than I am now post-chemo. I'd forgotten just how the Adriamycin felt: the metallic taste in your mouth, the feeling of your sinuses/eyeballs/head on fire, the nausea and best of all, the hiccups. I will be out of commission for the rest of April, essentially. And then gloriously reborn in May just in time for hot air balloon rides, symphonies, and most importantly, my birthday.

I'm going to pretend 23 never existed.