What Now

I don't know what's wrong with me. On Monday, I had to go home because I was nauseated and finally threw up. Yesterday I was all better. Today I'm feeling nauseated again. I've eaten a cup of yogurt and some hot tea.

I'm afraid to eat anything else because if I get sick, I may never be able to eat that again. That's how it is for me. Once I'm sick after eating something, I never want to be within a mile of it again. On the other hand, I really need to eat something.

Well so much for that. I just had to make a trip to the restroom...sick again.

Bitch Bitch Bitch

I am, among other things, what used to be referred to as "a woman of a certain age." I'm over 50 and I'm good with that. Fifty is a very liberating age, even if you don't have breast cancer to remind you of whom you truly are. Be happy with you, because you're great just the way you are.

Nonetheless, I've been in a general quandary about what's appropriate (or not) for women my age to wear. To help enlighten myself and avoid embarrassing fashion faux pas, I subscribed to a magazine aimed directly at my demographic.

I've come to dread its bi-monthly arrival. The magazine is filled with articles about women who've quit their unsatisfying, soul-killing but lucrative careers to pursue their personal career bliss. Without fail, these women have somehow managed to find the work they love that puts food on the table and pays the monthly mortgage. Imagine my distress.

I'm stuck here in Crazy Land, doing things that I generally don't like to do...or doing nothing at all (unless you count weblog activity as work-related). I'm the primary wage earner in the family, I have breast cancer, personal debt in addition to a mortgage payment and, of course, the rising costs of fuel, food and medication. Stuck.

I resent the beaming faces and glowing testimonials to branching out on your own, opening a knitting store, a cozy bed and breakfast, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Looking at them makes me feel like a failure and a coward. I am a failure because, even when my job here was highly demanding, it was without question nothing that I ever liked and always underutilized my brain power and creativity.

Next, the age-appropriate fashion. How many of us can afford a "bargain" $300 dress for work? Or a $150 pair of jeans, paired with a $200 pair of espadrilles and a $150 shirt? Even if I could afford it, I wouldn't. Clothing costs make me absolutely crazy. I like clothes. A lot. I don't indulge my desires as much as I used to; the changes breast cancer makes to one's body doesn't inspire a great body image.

I shop at sales. I mean 80% off sales. Even at that discount, I still couldn't afford anything like the prices cited as "reasonable" in any magazine that features knock-offs of high fashion looks. I don't want to look like Meryl Streep; I just want to look classy and elegant. People generally say I do. I think that has to do with the way I (used to) carry myself and the fact that I was genetically blessed with a tall, slender frame. We all know I work out like a maniac when I'm capable (in between breast cancer tortures). I try to eat right. So I look okay, without spending lunatic amounts of money.

Nonetheless, I'm sick of being made to feel like a disappointment to my generation for not achieving enough, looking good enough, being healthy enough, not climbing a mountain, not raising a perfect family while having an enriching career.

Where am I going with this? Nowhere. I just had to say. I'm not, repeat not going to read this month's article about gourmet cooking on a $400 a week budget. Furthermore, you don't like what I'm wearing? You think I shouldn't be wearing these shoes because they're too young-looking? As it turns out, I don't really care. Welcome to fifty.

I'm Cambodia

You're Cambodia!

Life's been really rough, but it's slowly improving. You know
way too much about the skeletal structure of humans, mostly from being forced to study
it. This has given you a fear of many things, most especially the color red.
The future has to be more promising though, and your greatest adversary can now
never come back to hurt you any more.


Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

Things Can Always Get Worse. Or Better. Or About The Same.

I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist on Thursday morning. He diagnosed the pain and swelling as localized lymphedema. I'd considered that possibility before, but my several sources of information only mentioned swelling down the arm, not under the arm. I don't understand why sometimes it's localized and sometimes it isn't. He said that physical therapy might be very helpful and referred me to a clinic here in town. They're supposed to contact me sometime this week. I'm enormously relieved that it's nothing more serious, although lymphedema, untreated, can produce disastrous results. It's also really unattractive.

Thursday evening I fell four times. Four times. That's excessive, even for me. I'm not sure why I fell the first two times, although I think all of them may have been a result of having my eyes dilated earlier in the day. I had an opthamologist check the progress of my macular degeneration. (It didn't get any worse--Yay!) It's possible that, even though it seemed my vision was back to normal, there may have been some depth perception distortion.

Anyway, the first couple of times I fell I was just walking around in my house. I didn't sustain any injuries. The third time, I misjudged the two steps down from my bedroom into the living room, slipped and sprained my ankle. Within about an hour, I was going through the den to let Andy the Demon Dog outside, fell and bruised my knee. Both the huskies' crates are in the den, but his is close to the path to the back door. I usually keep the crate door cracked so he can go in if he wishes. I've had disastrous encounters before with the wide-open crate door and I'm actually a quick study when it comes to ways to prevent collisions. I've had a lifetime of practice.

I guess Hubby left the crate door wide open and I didn't turn the lights on in the den. Too much time and trouble to turn on lights, you know. I slammed into the door with my knee and just collapsed on the floor. Luckily, the knee wasn't sprained, too.

Earlier in the evening, I accidentally whacked my head against a cabinet door. I have a bruise on my nose and forehead. They're not bad; they just look like maybe I'm not the most fastidious person in the world. My husband thinks I'm trying to get him arrested for assault. (Note I did not say "domestic assault." I think it minimizes the crime.) The most amazing news? I did not go to work. I always go to work with sprained ankles. Yes, I have them rather frequently. I think it runs in the family; my mom's ankles collapse for no apparent reason.

Today, I had my annual skin cancer check with my dermatologist. She found an area on my lower back that looked a little weird. It wasn't a mole or anything like that; it was a gray area that spread across my hips. We did a biopsy; results expected within 3 to 5 days. I'll have to have stitches taken out in a couple of weeks.

The great news here is that if it turns out to be something scary, my beloved Dr. Ross is an accomplished skin cancer surgeon. As a matter of fact, he consults throughout the country on difficult cases. Lucky me. Have I mentioned lately how much I love him?

Last Wednesday was Hubby's birthday. I was confused. I thought it was Thursday. Good move. I don't know--I was confused about the date all last week. Who am I kidding? I never know what day it is. I mean I'm not even sure if it's Tuesday or Thursday. It's either the monotony of daily life or the lingering effects of chemotherapy. I like the latter explanation later.

I'd already bought a gift for Hubby, so I was clear on that count. However, I didn't wish him a happy birthday until he pointed out to me that I should have. I noted that he forgot our wedding anniversary last year. We're even now.

Aside from giving you a blow by blow account of the numbers of loads of laundry I did this weekend, that about wraps it up. How timely. It's only about ten minutes before I get to go home. I'm working on being much more entertaining in the days to come, so don't give up on me now.