shadesofgrady
42 shades of grady
One man's journey toward a more fulfilling tomorrow...
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Pessimism wins out
I declared myself cancer-free in June of 2022, and that was affirmed a few times by different doctors in August and September of 2022.
Fast forward to December when my routine check results in my doctor saying “I have really bad news...”. Every word she said after that one may well have been uttered by Charlie Brown’s fucking teacher.
Stage 4. Liver. At least 10 lesions. Hoping it will be operable in a few months. More chemo - likely for the rest of your life. Port back in asap. Gut punch. Face punch. Dick punch. Tears.
Welcome to the lowest point in my life.
Taking a quick glance at Elisabeth Kugler-Ross’s grief model, I’m not certain where I stand a month after getting this life altering news. Let me assure you that I spent maybe 3 seconds in shock and denial. Been there, done that with a stage 3 diagnosis in 2021. Anger. Oh god, the anger. Let’s call it rage.
What the fuck? I get through 50 goddamn years with not much more than a hangnail, and now the first couple of years of this life-decade are being spent doing barely more than fighting cancer. Every life-plan I’ve made is officially on hold. We’re months (months!) away from having an empty nest. Fuck you acceptance. If I ever get above that line on the graph, it will be a fucking miracle.
And please do not tell me to find god. I will add your throat to my collection. And to just refine the unwanted input section - please keep your opinions on how I can probably cure this thing with not-so-veiled suggestions on what might’ve, could’ve, should’ve caused my cancer in the first place.
okay - rant completed. I’ll post more when I’m in the mood.
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All over but the shouting
3 weeks ago I finished the 6 months of pure awfulness known as chemotherapy.
Phew.
Is it really over? Well, they tell me I’m in remission, which I know is an amazingly good thing. I still have to be invaded by needles, contrast and robotic cameras here and there, but in general I’m cancer free. At least until I’m not.
That last statement was not intended as pessimism. It’s more the realization that not a day will go by over the next 5 years that I won’t wonder if it’s growing again. Some of those days will include high highs when I’m told the scan was clear, and others may not be so positive. Either way, I have to face it. I have to think about it, and I have to prepare for it. There’s not a hell of a lot I can do other than that.
I guess there are some life choices that would help, but let’s be honest, I’m not going to give up all the things that make me happy with the full-on knowledge that it might make no difference. So here we are.
The reason I mention 5 years is because my doctor told me that if the cancer decides to come back, it will do so inside of 5 years - and it will likely be in my liver, lungs or heart. Shiver.
After 5 years, she says that the likelihood of me getting cancer is the same as anyone else. God I want to be like anyone else. Lol.
So for anyone out there who has been reading my musings over the years, this is the end of a chapter that was painful and unpleasant, but I guess the outcome can be considered a winner.
I’m sure I will write more when the mood catches me - especially when I get serious about my job search. For right now, I’m just going to bask in the glow of remission.
That’s a good thing.
Cheers, friends. I’m almost back.
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changes
The last 10 years have kinda sucked.
Lost my Dad. Lost my Mom. Uprooted my family from the only home half of them knew, and while tropical paradise has its benefits, it’s hard for teens to reacquire their balance. And the job-front has not exactly been a full-on winner since I moved, if I’m being honest.
So tomorrow starts the penultimate chemo treatment. Between work still busy - and feeling like shit - I have had no motivation to write for a while. I guess you already guessed that.
I’m ready for the end of this journey, and I know that the coming months and years will have some very stressful moments from scans and blood tests, it literally has to be better than surgery and chemo.
It’s time to move to the next phase. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all of the attention, but I’m ready for it to move to the next needy person.
What’s the next step going to bring? I always say that I won’t go back to the marching-ant life, but then I always do. Golden handcuffs are a real thing. It’s just got to be time for something different - something more.
I’ve stared death in the face, and while it’s been incredibly scary, sometimes these things go okay. I’m a cautionary tale. Learn from me.
Or don’t. Just know that the preventative stuff is not nearly as bad as when they find something that shouldn’t be in there. Get the tests. Listen to your doctor - she or he went to school for 7 years and endured residency to be here to tell you, they know more than you do. And they do.
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Where is my mind?
Okay, I’ve been quiet.
No, chemo didn’t get me. Work did. People keep asking me, “are you working during all of this?” My answer is - what the fuck else am I supposed to do? Remember how I’m not independently wealthy, and my sugar momma is doing great, but perhaps not enough to afford all this. So I’m left to try to manage a full-time job on top of this shit-show we call chemo.
Would I prefer to be doing nothing but focusing on getting better, and maybe writing a quippy blog post or 2?
Oh, shit, yes. Can I do that? Oh, hell, no. Oh, and who am I kidding? If I had that kind of cash, I would never buy a Rolls.
So be patient, my friends. I’m entering the second 3 months of this thing, and I’m told stuff’s going to get way worse. Treatment #7 starts tomorrow. So maybe I will be forced to focus on stuff beside work for a while, but we’ll see. As I’ve said before, I need to make hay while the sun shines - or essentially use the energy I have. Sadly I’m using it for the wrong stuff. Or at least that’s what everyone is telling me. Although, let’s be honest here. When do I ever listen to anyone else?
Okay - back to Sunday yard work then basketball and beers. Sounds a lot like pre-ass-cancer life. For that I am thankful.
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Low Places
Oh - and in case anyone is wondering if chemo gets easier as you go, it doesn’t. Treatment #5 turned last week into was veritable wash. I was on the pump through Wednesday, and those days are never fun. Then the flu-like-lack-of-energy-hit-by-a-bus days arrive on Thursday and Friday. I slept probably 15 hours on those days, and when I wasn’t asleep, I wished I was.
This dance is becoming tiresome. And as of today, I’m less than a week away from #6 - the halfway point. I guess I can find a silver-lining in that fact; all downhill from here. Sadly, they say the 2nd 3 months is way harder than the first 3. Well, fuck me.
In case this is not an obvious thing, we are at a low point.
Brighter days must be ahead. One brighter spot is that Jack is coming home for Spring Break later this week.
Jesus - I just realized I turn 51 this week. I thought I felt bad before this.
Well cancer, you’ve won this battle. Im going to win the war though.
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Unconditional love
In the consistent theme of 2022, a.k.a. the pinnacle of suck, I said goodbye to a best friend yesterday.
My dog, Ellie, has been a staple in my life since 2008, and I loved her like I would any family member - maybe more. Sadly Ellie’s quality of life had become pretty awful over the past few years, and she ended up with debilitating diabetes and likely cancer in 2 spots (irony) - in addition to blindness and numerous other ailments. I don’t cry much, but I cried more times than I can count since Wednesday. Today I keep finding myself looking for her to take her out or any any other interaction.
Sadie (the little one) doesn’t know what to think, since her entire life has been side-by-side with Ellie. She keeps looking in the usual spots for Ellie, and then she just sits there and waits.
Jack - who is taking this the hardest - had to say goodbye to her by FaceTime. Now that was a gut wrenching thing to watch.
It is amazing how these animals can become a part of you.
I’m going to remember you like this, Girl. Blazing a trail for us while hiking at Wintergreen in your happier days. So majestic.
I will miss you every day, Ellie. Every. Damn. Day.
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Project Y
Treatment #5 of 12 coming on Monday. I think I’d rather have my ass removed. Oh wait, I’ve been there and done that. It’s definitely worse. I’d rather have COVID. How about that?
This week presented an unfortunate situation for me. I felt pretty much fine, but I had literally no motivation to do anything. Well, again let’s be honest, I had no motivation to do any work. The good news is that I get paid whether I do a lot or a little, and due to the cancer-card, it’s not like they can fire me. You’d think that doing very little and getting paid a lot would be a good thing. That’s not really all that fun either. Although I suspect the 50-year-old retired guys out there who made a fuckload in tech-whatever probably have motivation-less weeks too, and they probably also feel bad about it.
Not sure where I was going with that...
Anywho, off topic for a sec, I wonder if we’ve made a colossal parenting error today. Our 17-year-old daughter, who has made a few questionable choices in the past year, has asked to stay over at a friend’s house tonight with no parents present. Have you seen Project X?
Kill the suspense, we said yes to this outlandish request.
Admittedly, I’m a bit surprised she didn’t attempt to cover up the parent-less home, so I guess that’s a good thing. Although I guarantee my wife would have gotten that information out of her anyway. When I was that age, I would have lied like a mo-fo, and I would likely come clean about it 12-15 months later. Now I’m not saying that my daughter is the same brand of degenerate that my high school friend and I were, but I have to admit, she’s got something up her sleeve.
I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
I always though being an empty-nester would suck, but now I’m sort of looking forward to it. First stop, Vegas baby!
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Between 2 poison ivy plants
Interviewer: So, Grady, you’re one-third of the way through your chemo treatments. Can you tell us how your mental state is?
Me: Um, seriously? Why would anyone really want to read an interview with me?
Interviewer: Well, people tend to be interested in sad, depressing shit, but I think you already know that. What’s more depressing than your life right now?
Me: Fair point. Okay, I guess I’ll roll with it. My mental state is pretty good. The doctors who are far smarter than I dream to be say that this is the path to the cure, so I really should just shut up and follow the process. After all the pain and anguish, they will declare me cured - at least as long as it doesn’t come back.
Interviewer: That’s a semi-positive outlook for a guy who might be more of a cynic than a skeptic.
Me: Is that a question?
Interviewer: I’ve been reading your blog, and it appears that no matter what good thing happens, you explain why it’s bad using passive-aggressive humor. So the question is, if the world is out to get you, how do you find a positive takeaway from a deadly disease?
Me: I’m not sure I have a choice.
Interviewer: Let’s move on. Tell us what you like to do in your spare time.
Me: Dear God, I hate that question. Everyone always answers that they like to be outdoors, and they want to spend time with their family. I love my family and all, but I guess I need to be a bit selfish in my state. I just want to ski. I want to be in the snow and cold and mountains, and I don’t really want that to be spare time. Work sucks, and in all honesty what I do is pretty stupid. The funny thing is my particular brand of chemo causes extreme sensitivity to cold, so my face and extremities go numb when it’s colder than like 50 degrees. So this fucking cancer is hellbent on taking away the one thing I really love to do. You’re right, this is depressing.
Interviewer: You do know you live in Florida, right?
Me: Ugh. 37 states have ski resorts. Florida is not one. I live here more as a have-to, not a want-to. It’s an outdoor activity - I just need that door to be 1000+ miles from here.
Interviewer: I heard you recently started writing a bucket list. What’s #8 on the list?
Me: Walk my daughter down the aisle.
Interviewer: Is she getting married?
Me: Jesus no. She’s 16 and dating an ass-hat. I hope that’s 10+ years down the road. I want her to do amazing things, and then worry about arbitrarily legally binding her life to another human being. My bucket list is big and deep. I’m sort of hoping that I have a lot of time left to complete it.
Interviewer: Do you have a history of cancer in your family?
Me: Now you sound like every doctor I’ve talked to in the past 5 months. My mom had lung cancer, but she also smoked for 30 years. No ass cancer in the family to my knowledge. The docs tell me it was just bad luck. Remember how the world is out to get me?
Interviewer: Tell me something no one knows about you?
Me: My back is really not hairless like it looks when I’m on the beach.
Interviewer: Thanks for that visual.
Me: Isn’t that the type of stuff that would make people want to read the interview? Real hard-hitting journalism.
Interviewer: Okay, one last thing. What’s with the beard?
Me: I stopped shaving the week they told me I had cancer. I haven’t even trimmed it. Pretty bad-ass, huh?
Interviewer: I guess it is if you live at the North Pole and say “ho, ho, ho” a lot.
Me: Well, I’ve always wanted to see how it would look if I stopped shaving for a really long time, and the cancer card allows you to do whatever you want and look however you want. Shit, I wear slippers and sweats to the grocery store now. Maybe having cancer will be a good thing. I won’t worry about the little shit anymore.
Interviewer: And there’s that positivity again.
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Bro hug
Remember how I said my doctor would have frowned upon a fishing expedition in the midst of chemo? She would have been right. I mean Florida is fucking hot and sunny all this time - well except for last Friday when it was 55 degrees and rainy.
I mentioned the sensitivity to cold, so the 4 hour trip was . . . challenging. My hands and face were numb, and when the rain started, I considered swimming back to shore. Now do you think I let my best buddy of 30+ years know that I was struggling? Fuck no. I acted like a man, and I gutted it out. You know what - we had a fun time.
I have to admit, the fishing mostly sucked. Due to the gale conditions outside of the intracoastal waterways, we had to stay in-shore trying to catch some very hungry but hard to hook trout. The good news (for me) is that I brought home the only 3 keepers. They weren’t monsters, but fun nonetheless.
That little shark put up the biggest fight, and the other 2 would have been bait fish off-shore. Whatever, we seasoned these boys up and in addition to a lot of side dishes, they fed 3 people dinner. Jesus could have fed a crowd.
My pal will need to come back in warmer weather, so we catch some actual fish - and hear more horseshit stories from Captain Al.
The most important takeaway from the weekend is that my best friend and I are probably better friends than we were in high school. We drank a lot. We ate a lot. And we laughed a shitload. Cancer helps to make sure you say the right things to the right people - as often as possible. I love you, brother.
Since I’m typing this, and you can’t see me sitting in front of my computer, I just let out a meaningful sigh. Tomorrow is chemo day - number 4 for those of you scoring at home. I don’t want to do it. The side effects are getting progressively worse, and the process is just a fucking drag. Dreading something you have to do every 2 weeks is tough sitch, and it really makes you sensitive to how quickly a 2 week period melts away.
Like I mentioned in one of my earlier notes, I am writing this story as honestly as I’m able, but I‘m trying to inject a little humor, so it isn’t all as depressing as you might expect ass cancer to be.
My wife and sister continue to tell me that my writing is depressing, even when I try to point out some funny shit that comes into my mind during otherwise sad, annoying, even gut-wrenching events. I guess I’ll put like Buffett would. Let’s just call it a love song . . . from a slightly different point of view.
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Sleepless in Florida
The off weeks for chemo are damn-near normal. Last week I had energy, appetite, and I was basically able to work like normal. That last part sucked, but good-with-bad. Thursday we had a nice extended lunch out, and Friday was a normal Friday. Saturday produced an epic annual Christmas tree burning party to send our ridiculously price-inflated holiday decoration back to nature. Oh and there was a lot of bourbon involved - maybe a bit too much. Sunday morning at he Brunch Haus topped off a week that mostly forgot about ass cancer.
Well then on the ride home from brunch, I felt the malaise kick-in. The remainder of the day was spent feeling like I had a presentation at work that I have been dreading. If it weren’t for a bit of chemical-induction, my Sunday night would have been even more sleepless than usual. Now I get this pleasure every 2 weeks until kingdom come.
But honestly, who am I to complain? I know there are cancer patients out there with a far worse living day than I have, not to mention all of the other maladies and sad stuff out there. So really I’m just bitching because I can - and because it feels good - and sometimes it’s funny to laugh at stuff that sucks.
Regarding stuff that sucks, this neuropathy thing sounds fake. It isn’t. Holy fuck - when I touch something cold, it feels like I’m getting electric shocks in my fingers, and drinking something cold will numb your mouth like novocaine. 1-star, do not recommend. And apparently this side effect worsens as you go, and it can last (literally) forever after chemo. I guess just found an actual benefit of living in Florida?
Eidtor’s note: You see what I did there? I made it sound like I was curing myself of the incessant complaining, and then I found something else to bitch about. Good writing.
I’m sure this will likely go down as the worst idea ever (save project x), but my best buddy since 1983 is coming to visit me this weekend to do some long-awaited hanging out. For COVID reasons and countless other excuses, we’ve not seen each other since 2019 (maybe 18?). This is the guy with the asshole cookie I wrote about in November.
Now him coming to visit, in and of itself, is not necessarily a problem. Well, I guess one way or the other, my compromised liver might disagree. What’s questionable here is us scheduling an off-shore fishing trip for a rainy, cold Friday.
I suspect my doctor would have given a hard-no on this outing, so I neglected to tell her. Sometimes I just have to trust my inner doctor (child), who has my best health balanced with actual enjoyment of life.
Stay tuned, hopefully I will have pics from this event.
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Alchemy
What a roller-coaster shit-show!
Message received, Chemo, you’re not going to make this cure easy on me. Why do I feel really good when I’m getting the drugs pumped into me over a 48-hour period, and then as soon as it stops, my energy goes to hell?
I guess if ass cancer didn’t suck, they would call it something else.
Probably the hardest part of all of this is attempting to maintain full-time, gainful employment while fighting a potentially terminal disease. The stress of not doing everything at the same level of quality and speed to which your bosses have become accustomed is hard to stomach personally. Regardless of his or her assertion that they understand and have you covered, you just feel like you are officially damaged goods - and your days are numbered.
Balance this feeling with wanting to live every minute like it’s your last.
Oh well. good days and bad days as they say.
I honestly just came to realization last night that this is going to be a harder, longer road than I imagined. Yeah, I know. I should have known.
Time to sit back, ponder, and figure out next steps.
I think there’s going to be a lot of that happening in the coming months.
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Santa beard - check
Another day, another friggin appointment.
More discussion about poop.
The only redeeming factor from today’s doctor visit was him telling me that I’m doing great. Oh, and I conceived of a far better way to administer chemo. Why walk around with an idiotic fanny-pack looking aparatus, when you can have this fucking thing?
Now you have to imagine the tube going to the port near your clavicle, but honestly, this could work. Shart tank, here I come.
By time I reach the end of my chemo path, my beard should be just about that long, but unless I decide to start coloring, it will be predominantly white. Who am I trying to impress? Dad bod - check. Old guy disease - check. Random noises, grunts, groans - check. Drinks too much sometimes - check. Says inappropriate, off-color, insensitive stuff - check-a-rooni. A treasure that may be better buried or at the bottom of the ocean.
On that note, I will get back to my other invention - the home colonoscopy test / messager...
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Entourage Saget - not the other guy
Today is chemo day. #2 of 12.
The good news is that my doctor thinks (aside from some of the cumulative ones), my minimal side effects from Chemo 1 bode well for the coming weeks / months.
Can I tell you how fucking weird it is to have to talk about my poop with my attractive, likely mid-30s cancer doctor? I’m certain this comment is cringey and makes me seem out of touch with today’s world. But it is uncomfortable to me. In all honestly, I'd rather post frequency and consistency of my BMs here on the inter-webs, versus having this discussion face-to-face.
So I’m hooked up to the pump for a few days now, which means I won’t get much uninterrupted sleep until Wednesday night. Fun stuff. Dear Chemo - please just do your fucking thing and leave me out of it. Is that possible?
So in a related / non related story. Here is something incredibly fucked up that happened this weekend...
A few months back, I saw that Bob Saget was coming to a local venue literally in Ponte Vedra Beach. It is the smallest town on the East Coast, and the venue seats 400 people. Very cozy. I bought tickets before I knew about chemo - or the highly contagious omicron variant. I told my wife I’m going anyway, and she said something to the tune of “the shit you are”. Like any good negotiation, we both ended up with something. I got to be one of 4 people in the audience wearing a mask (Jesus, Florida), but I got to see Bob.
I’ll admit I never really thought anything of Saget in the Full House / AFV days, but he killed it on Entourage, and I heard the old standup was good. So to the show we went on Saturday. It was pretty good. He was a little less raunchy than I expected, and for this particular guy - that’s not an endorsement.
Last evening - less than 24 hours after the show - a friend reached out and said, “Did you see Bob Saget last night?” Did you hear he died today? W. T. Fuck? I scour the internet, and determine the rumor to be fact.
Incredibly sad, and he obviously touched a lot of lives in a positive way and made many people laugh (myself included). Bob - I raise my glass to you, and I thank you for a fun and memorable night in my chemo window - that was not related to chemo or cancer. Sorely needed.
You will be missed.
Now this last thing is going to tell you more about my friends and their sick senses of humor, but I have to admit I found this funny. As I was texting with my college buddies about what happened, one gentleman (loosely applied) said this, “It is really on brand that Grady was expecting more. I mean maybe it’s because he was fucking dying?”
Too soon? Yup. Definitely.
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Cancer-ridden Florida man dies in gruesome murder-suicide
My doctor told me after chemo on Monday that I probably wouldn’t feel like doing much on Thursday or Friday. Immediately I’m thinking that’s a long way out - I’m young and strong - I’ll do better. Funny thing about doctors, they know more than us regular folk for many reasons. So I cruise through Wednesday after getting the pump removed, and I’m feeling good. (I guess) thankfully I had already planned to take the day off on Thursday to extend the New Year’s weekend, but that was before I ended up spending it on the couch feeling like shit.
On account of COVID surges, generally feeling like the aforementioned shit, and (who could have predicted this) no craving for alcohol - I spent NYE on the couch feeling sorry for myself. I forced my wife to go to the party across the street, but I asked her to keep her distance. Given her triumphant “I love you, man” return at 1145pm with friends, I would be surprised to find that much distance was actually maintained. But I know she needed a few hours away. Seriously. Sitting on that couch with me might have resulted in a horrific murder-suicide.
Yesterday I was feeling the best I’ve felt on a New Year’s morning in maybe 30 years, so I decided to expend my energy trimming my palm trees that are probably 20 feel high with a ladder and a pole saw. A neighbor who drove by opened her window and inquired if I had gone fucking insane.
That’s not me in the picture, I swear. I told the neighbor the same thing I told my wife - I’ve got energy I’m going to goddamn use it. Now keep moving, Karen.
We also undecorated the Christmas shit. This is the most fucking depressing activity of the holidays, and every year I recommit to not doing Christmas the following year. I hope it sticks in 2022.
This coming week is full of awful shit. First of all, I was supposed to be on a plane with Jack to Bozeman for an iconic boys trip to Big Sky, but that ain’t happening. As a result of that, the resulting shitty outcome is 5 planned days of work - in a mf-ing row! It has been a really long time since I’ve had a week without some invasive procedure or at least an appointment, so I guess I should relish it?
I guess the good news is that global warming has ensured even Montana has not gotten enough snow to fully open their mountains in January, so I’m only missing out on 60-ish percent of the terrain.
Thanks a fucking lot, Mr. Heat Miser. You’ve all but won the yearly battle with your brother.
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Mittens in the icebox, really?
1 day into chemo, and consider me lucky thus far.
Side effects are minimal.
Sleep was a challenge, but I did get a few uninterrupted blinks.
I did a 20-minute moderately-paced walk this morning.
I worked most of the day, and I only lost my train of thought for a brief second or 2.
I’d be silly to assume it’s going to be this way throughout, but I’m really encouraged. Especially after they went through probably 90 minutes of drug descriptions and likely side effects up to and including an inability to be in the same room as something remotely cold - and ED (oh god!).
I know they need to prepare you for the worst, but seriously, what am I supposed to do at this point - bail on the thing they say will cure me? Fuck no. Just pump that poison shit inside me and make it all better. I guess one thing I got going for me - as awful as it feels initially - I was the youngest guy in the treatment room by at least 20 years. I guess that theoretically means that my body is stronger and better prepared to fight all the stuff it needs to fight. And in all honesty, aside from my enjoyment of beer and wine, I’m a pretty healthy 50.
So I guess this is really the beginning of the journey. A long 6 months of IVs at the clinic, days of wearing a pump and a tube shot into my chest, and lather-rinse-repeat every 2 weeks. And for any of you (like me) who might be embarking on this journey, you needn’t ask. It happens every 2 weeks on Monday like clockwork, not 2 weeks after you finish the treatment. Another fun thing you learn from the doctor after you’re told it’s the cure. Oh did I forget to tell you about the nut-stomping?
New Year’s Eve a-coming, and I for one am hoping for a far better 2022.
In the last week, I have talked to people who are in the same boat as me. And stories far worse than mine in obvious cases.
Mom has Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, and is a month into chemo.
Separated from husband a few weeks before Christmas.
Lost husband to COVID earlier this year, and then spent 4 weeks in the hospital recovering herself. Just recently got free of the oxygen tank.
Covid positive 2 days before Christmas.
Mom who was perfectly functional and seeing clients this summer now cannot recognize her own children due to aggressive dementia
Covid positive on Christmas Day.
Covid.
Covid.
Covid.
I could go on, but that would take another degree of separation, and then the list goes exponential.
Cheers to 2022. I hope.
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Tomorrow is the day
I don’t really have anything funny, inspirational or even anticipatory to say. I guess it just is what it is.
I am just going to embark on my new normal for the next 6 months. People spent a lot of time talking about “the new normal” during the early part of the pandemic. I guess since I never had the COVIDs, and I haven’t lost anyone close to me, my post-COVID normal is not wildly different than my pre-COVID normal.
I hope the same is true of my post-chemo world.
Either way, feel free to keep reading. Or don’t. Just remember, it is highly unlikely that this will become one of those feel-good caring-bridge-type reads. If stuff sucks, I’m going to tell you so. If stuff is good, I’ll probably find some funny twist on why it isn’t so good - or maybe just a harbinger of worse things to come.
For anyone who wonders why they might read something that is likely to depress them, let me ask you how many of you have watched Sopranos, Breaking Bad or Curb Your Enthusiasm? Sad, cringy shit sells.
Quite well, in fact.
Enjoy. Or don’t. I don’t really care.
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Note the question mark
I think I like Christmas on a Saturday.
That one-in-six occurrence causes the rare Friday holiday, and it means that basically everyone (read: all the assholes with whom I work) is (are) off for the day. That means, aside from the persons who always feel the need to impress you by their dedication to whatever it is we do, no one is sending work-related e-mail today.
Then we get the recovery Boxing Day, and pseudo-holiday Monday to follow. I’m going on record that Saturday is the best day for Christmas.
Oh wait, am I allowed to say Christmas? I think it was canceled a few years back due to some-such-bullshit. The funny thing is that I’m about as Christian as a stripper wearing a cross necklace. Or some less cringy analogy...
So back to cancer, I guess.
Chemo Monday a-coming. As much as I am dreading this event, I must admit I’m interested to see how “the port” fulfills its destiny. I still can’t really get my head around having this fucking nodule under my skin, with the knowledge that it will ultimately deliver the poison directly to my bloodstream far more quickly than my arm vein might.
Something to look forward to, I guess.
So, I have been spending much of my free time reading ski magazines and watching ski videos. You might ask yourself why the jaded fucker who writes this thing is paying strict attention to the one thing he wants to do - but can’t. The story is - the world ain’t fair, and I guess it’s better to live vicariously than not live? Note the question mark.
Today we took the son out to a wine-addled lunch (us not him, as much as he would have preferred to partake), and the girl decided she had better things to do. That part’s pretty common.
This just reminds me that I can still appreciate the little things. I really need to do more of this. Everyone keeps looking at me and talking to me like I’m going to die. I’m not going to - well, at least not now. I might as well take advantage of their not knowing and enjoy the little things without guilt.
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