trip the light neoplastic

 that's a horrible title, by the way. i shouldn't use it. but i thought of it yesterday when writing a poem that had some dancing in it, and now i just want to use it somewhere, so here you go. 

i want to say WOW i haven't written in a month?? but i'm not surprised. the truth is, i don't really have many more thoughts around all of this. i mean, i do, but nothing interesting beyond the usual anger or sadness or bewilderment. 

what is also the truth is, the side effects of this new drug are kicking my butt. even now, almost one month in. they're subsiding but so slowly i'm not sure i actually believe it. mainly: nausea and fatigue. i thought i knew how to deal with nausea what with all my prior experience, but no. i certainly have hardcore anti-nausea drugs i could take (left over from last year's chemo) but it's a trade off for their side effects. 

so i'm sticking with my ginger chews and lemon water and i think today i'm even going to try one of those anti-nausea bands the pregnant people use on their wrist. (the irony of that is not lost on me one iota). occasionally i start thinking, but what if it's not the medicine but the cancer wreaking havoc again all over my body?, but then i have to shut that thinking right down because it does me no good. i mean it could be that, and it could also be just the medicine. i won't know until my scan next week. 😬

i mean, i think it feels in a way like i am resigning myself to this life of letting cancer have its way with me. everyone who has ever had cancer knows this futile feeling. it makes me quiet, and more distant (if that is even possible). like the kid who gets bullied and tries to fight back at first, but then just accepts the punches. it's kind of pathetic actually, that image as well as the feeling. 

not that you'd notice from this post, but i *am* actually trying to change some of my thinking -- or at least change the focus of it. trying to think about living or wanting to live like at any time of day. obviously the way we talk to ourselves is important, and i don't think i'm giving my unconscious self the message about anything except anxiety and fear. plus, i'm still really really angry. like, a lot. like, thank-god-i'm-freelancing angry. 

changing habits is hard, trying to flip one's own worldview is hard. 

tomorrow, i'll visit the hospital so they can take blood and check the platelets, blood cells, etc. to make sure the medication isn't affecting them negatively. it can cause anemia sometimes, among other things. the docs probably have at least a faint idea if they think this drug is working or not, based on other numbers (CA-125), but i can't bear to look at them. now my strategy is just: if it's bad, i am sure they'll let me know. 

after the blood draw, i have an appointment with the NP who will want to know how i'm feeling. and i'll tell her, and she will make a note of it in my records. and then i'll come home and try to keep pretending i am consumed by my copywriting. 

i'm trying to edit this as i write it (never a good plan), and it looks to me like it's not very hopeful. given that, i will share with you the poem i wrote yesterday about trying to change my thinking. it's not a particularly good poem, but it will maybe give you an idea about where i'm at....

will report back with any news of course. 

trip the light

it matters how you talk to yourself, so mind the storm clouds 

helicoptering your mind by default. by default try to think 

of something nicer, or at least more innocuous, 

like the stupid meditation you tried to smile through, 

or his warm shoulder sulking in the afternoon.

eat up compliments like jellybeans, letting each one

sweeten eerie thoughts about funerals and failures

and what the garden might look like without you. 

the idea is to mistake all good thoughts for indelible ink. 

commit to using phrases without hyphens, as proof

you are more certain now. only in learning to forgo 

your self-portrait as sunken canoe, can you truly leave

behind the awkward formal fable, the one where you dance 

and dance until dizzy with plagiarized fear, forgetting to pause

--not even once--in praise of swaying hips