Communism: It's a Party!

I've read so many times by so many people how they hold it together so well during the whole diagnosis and surgery part, and then ten or however many months later, they just fall apart, for "seemingly" no reason.

Until I read the reviews on a book called "Dancing in Limbo: Making Sense of Life After Cancer," I wondered why I reacted so similarly in my own life.

It breaks my heart to see people going through this phase, thinking they're crazy or that they are falling apart at an inappropriate time. The truth is, there is no inappropriate time. They think, like I did, that we have no right to feel the way we feel, to feel overwhelmed, to hurt no matter what the current diagnosis, no matter if we're NED.

We all deal with this differently, and I just want people to know that- it's okay to feel this way. It's okay to break down. And it's SO NORMAL. When I read the reviews to this book, I understood for the first time that it was okay to feel the way I did, that it was typical step in the process of fighting cancer, and that people really understood. I want to share some of that info here, so others know, too.

All the best, and keep up the good fight.

-MissM

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Different readers posted these reviews on Amazon.com. I hope they help.

"Here's a book that finally tells the truth about living in limbo. For those who are surviving cancer, it provides validation, support, and guidance in coping with the threat of recurrence ... a process that stretches into the years following a cancer diagnosis. For families, friends, and health professionals, it eloquently and powerfully portrays the emotional experience of life after cancer—helping us to better understand, admire, and learn from those who have had to confront their mortality and are forever changed by this experience."

"I immediately wanted to recommAnd this book to my patients. [It] will serve as a roadmap to help cancer patients to anticipate feelings and stages of the coping process. It will help demystify the complex and often baffling set of experiences on the uncertain path of cancer survivorship."

"Dancing in Limbo leads readers through the dark morass of grief over so many losses to the new, positive identity of a survivor. The authors, Glenna and Lisa, quickly become companion travelers, offering wise counselor and helpful insights that guide the reader through what otherwise would remain an agonizing worry and darkness."

When you visit the health section of your local bookstore, you'll find a plethora of information about getting through a cancer diagnosis, and very little about how to adjust to life after cancer. As the founder of a cancer support group, I believe that survivors are leaving our hospitals in droves - unprepared.


When a cancer patient "graduates" from treatments, she might exit the hospital floor amidst claps, cheers, and balloons. Her loved ones can finally breathe a huge sigh of relief, for she is out of the worst danger. Everyone wants to celebrate and get on with LIFE!

But the feelings inside the patient leaving the crisis behind may be those that she never expected: anxiety, fear, uncertainty, confusion. She leaves the constant medical care that has saved her life. She leaves attachments that grew when she was under incredible stress. She enters a world where everything is okay, but she doesn't feel okay. What does she do next? What meaning can she add to her life after all of this? How does she make sense of everything that she has learned because of cancer? How does she relate now to her healthy friends when she feels tired, hurting, different, or disabled? These are the issues cancer survivors dance with for the rest of their lives.

This book addresses, in a personal and realistic way, the effects of cancer on our lives - after treatment is finished. The authors interviewed dozens of cancer survivors and received the candid responses that you'd expect from those who have been through it all and want to help others.

One of the most interesting parts of the book for me was the discussion of how people handle trauma psychologically. It helped me understand the different approaches we each take to cope and make sense of a cancer crisis. I am now more accepting of others who view their cancer experience in a different light than I view mine.

I also came to a deeper awareness of how my cancer affected my loved ones, how the process of dealing with diagnosis and treatment is so different for them than for the patient. This showed me why my loved-ones may not fully understand, or want to think about, what life *after* cancer is like for me. ..

If you love someone who is finishing treatment, or if you have finished treatment within the last few years, I urge you to buy this book. It may be more expensive than the other books out there, but it is SO worth it. This is the perfect cancer graduation gift! Just giving someone this book shows them that you understand their battle for a full life doesn't end with treatment. I wish I could give it to every survivor I know." ---

"I can't remember who suggested this book to me while I was recovering from surgery and radiation for liposarcoma in my leg. It must've been someone from my online support group.
At the time I was physically recovering but mentally I had stalled and I couldn't understand why. Everything had gone as well as possible but still I was just moving in slow-motion, numb and kind of confused.
This book has a few basic elements that will apply to everyone who has been affected by cancer, the most important being that you will never find the old "normal" again, and that's why so many survivors feel lost during their recovery. Your old goal is gone but this book will help shed some light on the process, how it works, how it affects people and how you are not alone in your feelings."

"This book made all the difference to me when I finished my first rounds of chemotherapy back in 1998. Glenna and Lisa help make sense of the conflict we feel when our "active" role in fighting cancer is over, when we feel abandoned by our doctors and support networks.

I've recommended this book many times to others currently in treatment, and they are astounded that they could ever "miss" going for their weekly chemo. Incredibly, the feeling is very common! I like to go back to the book on occasion myself; although I've been in active treatment for 3 years now, there are still times I find myself reaching for the wisdom and clarity that Glenna and Lisa bring to what is a bizarre, scary, demoralizing time.

Highest recommendation!"

"Thank you so much for this wonderful book! I have been a caregiver for my husband for the past 9 months. Once he got a "clean" bill of health I didn't know what to do with myself. I thought I was going crazy! You take charge and be the rock for so long and then all of the sudden you don't have to do all this stuff anymore. I went and saw a counselor at the cancer center and explained what I was feeling. She said I was right on schedule and I wasn't crazy. She suggested this book and I tell you what it was a life saver!!!!! Everytime I would be going through a moment I would read the book and I was right on schedule!!!! Scary!!!! I would recomend it to anyone who is dealing with life after cancer. Thank you so very much!!!!!!"
- Peggy Coffey

When Popes Attack

If you know me at all, you know one of my most common catch-phrases is, "I'm sure it'll be fine." Leave the Interferon out of the fridge for 3 days? I'm sure it will be fine. Is this yogurt still good? I'm sure it'll be fine. Yes, this has gotten me in some trouble over the years. Definately. But it's also kept me out of a lot of trouble when losing my mind seemed like the only thing that made sense. And, essentially, I'm almost always right- in the end, everything is pretty much going to be fine.

Cancer has done a lot for me in the reality department: some days, when I think, I'm just going to push my way through this and pretend it doesn't hurt and I'm sure it will be fine- it actually isn't. I run myself into the ground doing too much, and I don't bounce back like I used to. This is twice as difficult because I feel so young, and I think about 30 being just a kitten in the big scheme of thing. So I put myself through more pain than I need to because I assume everything will be fine if I just keep moving.

This weekend, I had a feeling something was a little wrong: I was way too tired, but thought if I rested, everything would be fine. By Monday afternoon, I'd spent too much time on my feet, the lymphadema was really bothering me, and I was starting to have a shooting pain up my leg. Tuesday morning, it was oozing pus, and now the infection on the scar on my foot, which I evidently had all along, is up to my ankle.

Is everything going to be fine? I'm sure it will be, yes. But it's obvious to me more and more and in many ways that I'm just a human, and maybe I need to take care of myself a little better instead of just always assuming it'll be fine; instead of just pushing to succeed. I've always been this way: hate to ask for help, know that I can do it by myself, don't even like it when people hold the door open for me when I'm in my wheelchair. I think it's why I love to run: it's as much a mental exercise as a physical one, and strengthens my ability to push myself as far as I can go. When I run, I think, "One more mile." And then, after that mile, "I can do one more mile." And after that one, "One more mile is nothing...." and so the story goes.

Infection, however, in a leg with no lymph nodes is a big deal- the healing process is slow and since my numbers are low, it's twice as bad. I'm allergic to penicillin, which I know the Doc is going to prescribe anyway, so I'll be an itchy witch for the next couple of weeks. Benadryl helps, but it'll be hard to work with Benadryl in my system.

Could all of this been prevented? Yeah. Probably so. My bad. Another lesson learned, I hope this time for good.

In light of this, though, I've realized, I think for the first time, that I really have accomplished something. A year ago, I had surgery, and it took away all of my independence. I couldn't drive, couldn't work, couldn't even walk. I spent more than a month in the hospital, then spent the next 9 months developing every possible side effect from Interferon. Essentially, that means I've had the flu for almost a year.

And now things are better. I'm back at work, even though a lot of the time I have to use a wheelchair, but working has made a world of difference in my self esteem and my outlook. I have a life again. Through all of this, I've thought, "I'm sure things'll be fine." Here I am, almost done with this journey, and I can honestly say for the first time, I think I'm proud of what I've done and how I've handled it.

That's a big thing for me. I'm looking for the first time at my experience through other's eyes, and it's a refreshing change. Is it a big deal? No, not really. People go through this all the time, thousands upon thousands of people survive cancer. And now I have, too. I look back and think, yeah, there were things I could've done differently, but I'm here now, and it's almost over. I don't beat myself up for not working, for the weight gain, for all the things I've taken hits for from other people or myself.

For those that have been supportive, for those that have been there the whole time and told me to rest when I was tired, who understood when I slept through dates, who checked my blog every day, who posted inspiration to me on MPIP, who always said "Keep it up" and never said, "You know, people on chemo do work" or "You'd feel better if you got out of the house," I dedicate this blog to you. You have been the reason this has worked, and I can not tell you how lucky I feel. So lucky and so unworthy of such amazing thoughts and prayers.

Okay, enough of the mush. But I do want to end with this: I love you all and I thank you again and again and again for all you've done.

-MissM

If you save yourself for marriage, the terrorists win

Hola out there in internet land. Well, week 2 is over and done with. I've officially been back at the 40 hour routine for 14 days (and counting). And, on an even happier note, I've only got some 6 weeks or so left of Interferon treatment, which means normal life is right around the corner.

It seems so wierd that just a month ago I was screaming and crying over finishing up this chemo. I was so mad that I felt so sick all the time and that I couldn't just, say, drop off at 10 months and call it even. Do I still wish I could've stopped? Heck yeah, but I didn't- I'm finishing up, and things are looking good. I'm taking a lot more pain meds than I'd like, but, let's face it: it's whats getting me through right now and I think that's the way its going to have to be for a while, at least until this is all over. And, as Bobby says, hey, I guess that's what they're for.

I spent this weekend just really resting and trying to get back to a good state. You know, line up my chakras and all that jazz. Friday after work I came home and thought I'd take a nap before dinner. Next thing I know its Saturday afternoon at 3 p.m. I guess I was more tired than I thought I was. The rest was really good, and I took another nap at 6 and didn't get up really until Sunday at 1. Life of a working girl! Who loves it?

The only thing that sucked about my weekend semi-coma was that The Boob made dinner for me on Friday: went to the store, brought it home and fried it up in a pan, set the table up with candles and made dessert and everything. He said that after an hour of trying to wake me, he finally gave up and just ate without me, gave the dog my tacos and had a beer by himself.

Poor Bobby. He does so many nice things for me. I can't wait to be normal again so we can have fun like we used to and I can treat him instead of him always having to treat me.

On another note, is gas a killer or what? Dude, barely getting by having to commute everyday with such little cash. Thinking of trading in the luxury sadan for a Vespa.

Anyway, besides that, I'm still awaiting my results on my certification test, I'm working on looking for jobs for 6 weeks from now. SO excited about being out there again. Pretty soon I 'll be back to running and bringing home that paper, and I'll be that girl out there that people will be able to say, "Did you know she is a cancer survivor?" Does that sound wierd- to want to be a model of normality in a f'ed up world?

Anyway, toss it around inside. Make that money but don't let the money make you....


-MissM

Somewhere between here and Hasselhoff

Hey kids,
Well, it's been interesting, I'll tell you that. Evidently the Elavil is working, because I accidentally uploaded the wrong picture 4 separate times. Now, where did I put that heroine needle?
Last week (Monday) I started student teaching/observing at a local elementary school in the morning, and going to an "institute" (not the kind I'm usually in) to learn teaching techniques in the afternoon. So my days are now filled from 7 a.m. to about 5 p.m. out of the house- a big, but very good, change from the days I was doing chemo and then locked up in the warehouse all day.

I'm tired- I'm really, really tired- but it feels good in a lot of ways. I sleep most days from around 5 p.m. to the next morning, with a small break when I'll get up, do some more chemo, have something to eat, say "hi" to the Boob, take some pain pills, do some homework, and then go back to bed. My leg's been really hurting, but I'm hoping I can adjust to all this and become the production member of society that David Hasselhoff would want me to be.

That's really all that's going on with me. Stupid Comcast isn't working at the casa, so I'm doing remote posts (which is why it's so short), but I'll be posting longer, and of course fascinating, blogs later to keep you all updated.

Peace and porkchop grease, people, and keep the candles burning for me.

-Miss M

I haven't had a Schlitz since elementary school

I got a great email the other day; I'd been feeling really bad, and feeling sorry for myself, so I posted on a forum what was going on with me. When I got this, it totally changed my outlook, and I thought some of you might enjoy it, too.
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(I've edited some of this to shorten the length, but you'll get the picture...)

Hi Miss Melanoma

I saw your post on the MPIP board and decided to visit your website and was very impressed. You seem like an upbeat person with a very positive attitude. I wanted to briefly share my experiences which hopefully will be of some help and comfort.
At one point I had hit a very low point in my battle with melanoma. I had 25 malignant lymph nodes removed under both arms with two axillary node dissections done 90 days apart as well as having suspected lesions in the lungs and liver. My original surgical oncologist who became a friend and also had melanoma, had recently lost his battle and died which was almost like losing a parent. What were my chances if they couldn't save my physician? I was told that my chances of survival were less then 5%.
At the time we were living on St Croix in the Virgin Islands and were then hit by Hurricane Hugo (a category 4 storm) that destroyed our home,cars and did serious damage to our business. I was beginning to think that maybe someone was trying to tell me something and that I was no longer welcome on Planet Earth. Then I came across a book called "You Can't Afford the Luxury of a Negative Thought." In a way the title of that book became my personal battle cry. I decided that I was going to make a maximum effort to combat this disease on all fronts and was determined to try everything from good nutrition, exercise, positive thinking as well as going to the very best doctors I could find. I was determined that if it was my time, so be it but I was not going to have any "I should have's" during the final moments of my life. I took one day at a time and tried to live each and every day to it's fullest.

Recently I met with my newest and 4th surgical oncologist who agreed with the 5% survival prognosis and recommended that I continue with the annual CT scans which were done last week (with the results to come soon). At the same time I observed my 20th anniversary of living with melanoma (eighteen of which were uninsured). I wish you the best in this battle and again commend you on your outlook and your website.

-John

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Hope this helps you all as much as it did me. Love ya!

-Miss M

Oh Waffles thou art with me, thy butter and thy syrup, they comfort me

Okay, let's just get right down to it. Have you seen Carrot Top lately? When Carrot Top is roided up like this, it makes me think it's time for me to do something about this weight gain.
TodayI made three waffles, one for the dog, one for me, and one for my new set of hips; I ate right before the old Interferon, which I've started taking earlier in the day (4:20) in order to sleep through side effects. Plus, it's helped with appetite, which, I'm not sure, but may be a good thing. However, we're officially building on to the apartment for my a## now.
Went to the Y today, and tried to work out because I figured I just couldn't take this look any longer. I've got more chins than China. Janet Jackson has nothing on me. (Isn't chemo supposed to make you lose weight?) So, this is the second time I've worked out in the last year, and both times didn't exactly work out too well. The first time was 7 months ago, and I was in bed for 3 days straight afterward. Since then, I just figured the muscle pain and joint pain was too much, so I've just been walking a little, and I mean very little.
So, the Y. I got an email from a fellow chemo-er suggesting I try riding a bike instead of running, because it's lower impact. And I felt better than I have in a long time (maybe it was the 2 Vicodin) but I thought maybe an elliptical runner would be a good idea. Two minutes in, I was having chest pains, and about 30 seconds later the machine shut down, saying "Your heart rate is too high." I switched machines, thinking I could outsmart the little sucker, and again the machines shut me down every 30 seconds after that. I eventually got 15 minutes of running in by moving to a machine without a HR monitor on it. Yeah, probably not the smartest thing I've ever done, by far. Again, we'll blame the Vitamin V on that, as inaccurate as it is. And, get this, I barely made one mile in 15 minutes. A year ago, I could've run a mile in 15 minutes with just one leg. I could've hopscotched a mile in 15 minutes. I could've done it with Carrot Top on my back (old Carrot Top, not roidy Carrot Top).
Oh well, I guess it's just another motivator to get this chemo over with and get back into old habits. I'm looking forward to it. Today the rash is a little worse than usual, and I've got some pretty serious lymphadema. It hurts more than it usually does, but I'm guessing it's just from more swelling than typical. I'm eating ice like a freakin eskimo- my guess is that I'm probably anemic, because ice always tastes so good when my numbers are low. I don't feel bad, though, and I guess the workout was at least worth a try. Soon I'll be back in the old saddle, feeling fit as a fiddle. And hey, double chins aren't THAT bad. It could be worse. :) Right?

Ninja, Please

Well, it's a new week, and the good news is that it seems like the site is getting a little more play, and more play is better for just about anybody, I say. Those of you helping to keep my site numbers up are highly appreciated, and it seems to be paying off. Here's props to my peeps.
Word to your mamas.
On the health front, unpredictable stuff again and that means another chance to piss and moan. I'm trying, now that I only have 2 months left (I know, WTF, right?), to start a new habit of journaling when I'm feeling like this. It's been a rough day today, odd following a pretty good week: a lot of nausea, a little fever, chestpains, shakiness, general malaise. Not so bad I can't get out of bed, so that's good. Not so bad I have to take a pain pill, so that's good, too.
Weird thing is, I was in the car today, letting my thoughts race, and I kept thinking about how, even after a year of this, it still seems so unreal. I still, to this day, sometimes question if I'm really sick. Do I really have cancer? Is it as bad and as serious as they say? Will I have to take chemo? Maybe it's the low numbers, but I've been on chemo for 10 months now. 10 months and sometimes I just wonder if I'm faking it. Am I sick? If it weren't for the chemo, I don't even think I'd feel sick. So unreal. And yet, this is the strangeness of cancer. The strangeness of being young and feeling so bizarre being ill. I guess in some circles it could be called denial. I guess, but it's way too in my face to be that anymore. Seems so weird that after all this time I still can't control so much. Anyway.

Geez, I bet y'all get tired of hearing me whine. Speaking of wine...


So, I got an email a few days ago from a guy named Peter with his own blog called the Interferon experience at interferonexp.blogspot.com. I want to encourage all of you to check it out, support a fellow survivor and blogger, as I think he could use some cheery words these days. Interferon can be quite a nasty old lady, and a few kind sentiments never hurt anybody.
On the upside, Bob Marley sang to me today, I got free pancakes, Bear's back home, and my family is healthy and well, so I can't really ask for too much more. Things could be alot worse, and I'm just gonna keep that in mind. Hope all of you are well, too.

Best,
MM

999- Evil when Doing Handstands

Well, kids, things are looking good. If you haven't checked in on the regular site lately, you really should, because it's new and improved and looking great. There's more to come, of course, but the revamping in the works is a big move on our part to target the 20 t0 30 crowd who may be looking for survivors going down a similar path, and we're glad to be just that.

The new meds seem to be good, too. The steroid appears to be helping the rash a little, even though it makes me eat everything that isn't nailed down. The double dose of Lexapro has definately started to keep the feelings of depression at bay(it's amazing and awesome how well- and how fast- a new dose helps), and the pain killer is really helping with the side effects of the Interferon. Overally, I'm actually really happy I threw the fit that I did at the doctor's office, even though at the time I felt like a total idiot. And, let's face it, I probably was. The good news is- I'll say it again- that I'm lucky to have been connected with great doctors. Dr. Daya was really awesome this week, and made me feel so much better. He's right- two months is not that long in comparison to what I've done already. Plus, it's totally worth it in comparison to having this cancer come back. I'm starting to feel more like myself already, and it's only been a week or so since the change in drugs, but I'm so glad that it helps. Bobby even said today that it's good to hear me laughing again, and it's good to be back. I missed you guys.
It just goes to show that when you feel like something's not right, it pays to follow up on it and insist on something to help. I don't think if I would've just asked for new stuff that I would've gotten anything. I guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease in these cases.
Anyway, enough of that.
Tomorrow I'm going out of town to present a scholarship given in memory of my dad. I'm a little nervous, and not sure what I'm gonna say, but it's such an honor to do and such a great way to remember him. Seems like 10 years ago that he passed away, and yet I guess it wasn't even 2 years yet.
I remember the first time we talked about him having cancer, and I think now how different my attitude is about living with it and how it's not the death sentence so many of us associate with it. I'm lucky that things have changed, that advancements have been made, that this was the year I had melanoma and not 2 years ago, when Interferon wasn't even around. Lucky that there's mice out there giving up recombinant DNA for suckas like me, those crafty little fools in their tiny white lab coats putting together proteins. Isn't technology wonderful? I think so, too.
Just 2 months left, and everything is going to change for me once again. It's been a crazy year, and even though it's not over yet, I'm encouraged that the end is near.
I know I'll walk away from this forever changed, but that doesn't mean it has to be a bad thing. I just know I'm excited about this new chapter in my life and looking forward to the changes.
Can't wait!


-MM

I rant, therefore I am

Okay, truth?
The truth is I went to two separate doctors this week and told them both, "I'm not doing this Interferon anymore." The side effects have gotten worse, and it's starting to cause depression, and I just thought to myself, It's not even worth this. I've got two months left, and they'll let me off of this so I can go back to work and have a normal life again.
With Dr. Daya, the results were significantly better than with my new oncologist at Parkland, but let's face it- neither let me off the hook. I did get better meds, though, so I guess I can't complain.
I knew going into this situation that I'd probably get the whole, This-is-a-serious-disease speech, which I did (twice). And, you know, nobody wants to hear that, even when it's the truth. Nobody wants to hear that if or when this cancer comes back, that it will have attacked the organs in a matter of 3 months and life will essentially be over. You hear that, and you just think, What are you talking about? I'm 30. There's no way I'll be dead in 5 years. I mean, my parrot won't even be dead in 5 years, and he lives on crackers and water.
And then the whole thing starts all over again, with me thinking how this isn't worth it if I'm only going to be alive 5 more years, how the last 10 years have just flown by, and how stupid this stupid disease is. It's not like liver cancer, where you get it just because it's in your genetics somewhere and there's not really anything you can do about it. This disease is, many times, preventable, and more people get diagnosed with it than any other cancer in America. How much sense does that make? Then I just get mad, just get overwhelmed thinking about the fact that in the 1930s, the chance for a person living in the U.S. to develop melanoma was 1 in 1,500 and now it's 1 in 74. How does this happen? I bet Al Gore could tell me. Still, it seems to make no sense.
What I wish for is one of those American Beauty moments, when the beauty of the world just fills me up and blah blah blah blah blah, but the reality is, I haven't had one of those moments in a while. What I've been thinking lately is about the 60% chance that within the next few years, I'll be going through all this shit all over again, and it makes me sick to think of it. I'm down, chemo sucks, and even though I'm taking measures to make all of this better, it's still so overwhelming sometimes. I'm sure you can imagine. And even though it sucks, (have I mentioned how bad this sucks?), I know that things could be so much worse, and I guess I'm just happy for this moment right now.
I'm taking the chemo again like a champ, I'm dealing with what I can, and I'm doing my best to just believe I'm the exception to the statistic. And if all of that works out, I know I'll be just fine.

-MM

Free chemo in the parking lot

Here's a great little list just for fun I jacked from Planet Cancer.com. I'll check back in soon. -MM ******************************************************************************* Top 10 Ways to Disrupt the Waiting Room

Ask everyone around you to do things "stat". Offer free prostate exams. Ask everyone nervously whether they have a "spare catheter." Pop a tape in the VCR of you in an avocado-eating contest. Supplement bland waiting room periodicals with nurse-fetish pornography. Give your best rendition of that dance-floor classic: The Naked Raptor. Hold up sign that reads, "Free chemo in the parking lot." Initiate a spelling bee. Be unflinchingly cruel with errors. Leaf through every magazine in the room, shake hands with everyone else and then say loudly, "Jesus, this flesh-eating scabies itches like a mother." Repeatedly refer to the doctor you're waiting to see as "The Trembling Butcher."

Spirits are High, Numbers are Low

Here's my advice to you: don't get cancer. Although, I guess the reality is, the cancer doesn't actually hurt, it's the chemo that sucks. So, really, I'm recommending that you don't inject interferon into your body. That being said, if your doctor says take it, s/he does have a little more medical expertise than me, so you may want to listen to them. But whatever. You make the call.
I'd first like to say that I know you may not want to hear all this, because, you know, it's gross and kinda depressing, but if this is what's necessary to get you to wear sunscreen, then by God, I'm bearing my soul. Wear sunscreen dammit!
The chemo's been a little rough the last couple of days, and I guess my numbers are low, because my gums have been bleeding for the last 24 hours (which doesn't hurt, but also doesn't do much for my breath, as you can imagine), and I have an eye infection in both eyes, thrush in my mouth, and what appears to be impetigo in my nose. The body aches aren't much fun, either, and the muscles in my legs cramp when I stand, which explains why the Boob had to kinda pull me out of bed this morning. Food somehow helps, and I'm not sure how that works, but it does, so I've been trying to eat regularly and healthy stuff. Ugghh. Anyway, those chief complaints along with the joint pain in my shoulders, neck, hands, elbows, hips, knees and ankles has been pretty bad- so bad that I'm taking Vicodin to relieve the pain. But the Vicodin does help, and, what can I say, life is pretty good when I'm on it. Who loves it?
It sucks. Have I mentioned that? Yeah, I guess I did. And, as usual, I wonder if I should tell y'all this stuff. But I feel like poopie on a stick, and, as Bobby says, "everything's not always rosie. People need to know that." Maybe he's right. Maybe this will motivate people to be more aware of cancer risks. Maybe Armageddon has subliminal pictures of naked women sliced into the film. Maybe Condeleeza Rice is really a man. We just don't know, people. All I know is what's going on right here and now with me, and I'm taking another Vicodin.