Some random thoughts

My first instinct here is to apologise for the last post. It's an instinct I'm going to resist. Just as I've resisted the instinct for the past several days to log back on and either take down the post or put something else up.

I'm trying to share the whole cancer experience. Not just the funny stuff. And I have to be honest, there's a lot of bad stuff as well.

There's a lot rolling through my mind lately. So this is an unstructured post, just to share some of the things that I think about.

I nearly died today. I was in the hospital getting a bag of fluid because I need to drink a lot after chemo (which happened yesterday) and I can't do it alone, some anti-nausea drugs and an injection to make my bones burn. The nurse put a burette up to allow the anti-nausea drugs to drip through and forgot to make sure that the bag of saline was reconnected. About twenty minutes later another nurse from across the room noticed that it wasn't dripping at all. The original nurse came over and started it going again, and then spent ten minutes removing the air bubble from the tube. The same air bubble that if left unchecked, would have gone into my veins and aneurysed me. Not really sure how I feel about that. A bit weirded out, actually. Ten minutes more of no one noticing (including me, I should say), and that last poxy post would have been the last one for posterity.

I suggested to another nurse yesterday that it would be funny to find the stash of sicky bags (see down the bottom of the page link for a picture - amazing invention. So much more civilised than a bowl that you then have to peer into while waiting for the next heave.) and prick them repeatedly with a pin. She was, probably quite understandably, horrified. I don't know why my mind thinks such things. Probably an attempt to hide from the pain.

I bet every comedian has a deeply depressive side.

Lemon meringue pie vomits up really well. Not as well as water, but that doesn't really count. Pineapple vomits up the worst so far. So acidic.

My dad asked me last night what it is I want from life. So here it is. I want... to get married and have kids and a house and choose schools and worry about them and renovate and go to work and spend time with my family. I want what so many people look at in their lives and think "is this it?" I'm trying to make decisions as to what to do with the remaining years of my life. And people keep telling me to do what I want, to do what makes me happy. But what I want is not an option anymore. So it's not a question of doing what I want. It's a question of doing what would be least worst. Because this path is not what I would have chosen.

I should have pointed out in my last post (and would've, if I wasn't too busy wallowing in misery) that I am not in fact alone, no one is ever alone. God is always with me, God is always there to share my pain. But sometimes it's so easy to lose sight of that. Jesus is just not physically available for hugs. It doesn't mean he's not there though.

And I'm trying to see that God does have a plan for me. And I know he does. And I just need to be open and willing to embrace that plan. But sometimes I'm scared that the best thing I can do with my life is die and teach others about death and life and love. And that scares me.

I've realised that a lot of God's promises - his joy, his peace - will probably now be fulfilled for me in the next life, not in this one. And on one hand that is wonderful - it means I'm not afraid to die anymore, and sometimes I look forward to the release. But on the other hand, it is so deeply saddening - I am losing so much of my child-like faith that no matter what happens in life, I will always be happy, that there will always be good things.

Sometimes I just feel like I am floating on my back in the great toilet that is my life, waiting for the next great pair of buttocks to appear above me and shit on me.

Yes, I have actually spotted that I'm depressed. In fact, I've been mildly depressed for weeks now. I only got really depressed when I realised that I was depressed. That was a very depressing moment.

So let's look at all the wonderful things in my life:

My mama, without whom I don't know that I'd even bother sometimes. She does so much for me that I feel bad for even being depressed. I love her so much.
My brother Ben, who calls me "the sun that illuminates all else".
My brother Tim, who is in teenage world, and speaks mainly in grunts and monosyllables, but who called me on my birthday and spoke for nearly an hour.
My dad, who asks the right questions when I get lost.
My step-mama, Beata, who would do anything to make me feel better.
My sister Sophie, for having so much love in her for me that she can't express it and has to make monkey noises.
My step-dad, Dave, who let me cry on his shoulder on the weekend. And would do so every day of his life if that is what I asked.
My Auntie Annette, who loves me so much.
My aunts and uncles and cousins.
My grandparents.
My friend Amy, who has my name tattooed on her arse. (She also watches the Pussy Cat Dolls with me.)
My friends Brad and Jacqui, who are bringing me down to Sydney next week.
My friends Rachel, Michael, Jo and so many more.
My colleagues at the Palace for not forgetting me, for reminding me that I used to be a contributing member of society (well, business anyway) and could one day be again.
My doctors and my nurses.
The people who comment on my blog and make me feel like I am being heard out there. Well done especially to Marion - thank you both for overcoming the technology and for the recipe!
My motorbike dreams.
The fact that I have two arms, two legs, a mostly functioning body and a mind that still works.
The fact that God looks after me and blesses me everyday, even when I'm too self-centred to be grateful for the blessings.
Fruity-bix.

Notice a theme there? The things I am most grateful for are the people in my life. In fact, there are four great Fs in life - faith, family, friends and food. (Yes, I know Amy. Ta by the way. I didn't see any copyright, and I amended the quote anyway. Blogging is like that.)

So I am grateful to my God, for his great blessings and promises.
To my family, for loving me and caring for me so much.
To my friends, for choosing to be my family, and choosing to love me.
And to food, just to make life really good. Besides, who wants to die skinny? (I've had no takers yet on the Pooh Bear email thing, either by the way. Tell your single friends.)

So while I'm going through a bit of a depressed phase, I'm sure that's normal too. And you know what? Even if it's not normal, that's what's happening now, so that's what has to happen. So there. And I haven't completely lost the plot, I still have so much to be grateful for, and I will still find things to make me happy. Mostly people, God and food, I suspect.

Oh, and humour, and having a laugh whenever I can. Any suggestions on what I should wear to my final chemo ever (because I'm buggered if I'm going to do it again)? I am open to suggestions. I'd make it a competition, but the last one failed. One entry? You guys are so slack. I know I have more time on my hands but still!

And just to show that I haven't completely lost my sense of humour (and probably to really highlight the truth of my last post) and also to reward you for sticking out such a long post, here's a little something I wrote about the Pussycat Dolls two weeks ago...

"Words fail me. There is now a forum for young women to stand up and ask "Am I skanky enough?" Who then cry when their dreams are shattered as they are told "No, in fact, you have too much class to be in our club".

Search for the Next Pussycat Doll launches on Sunday night. Every teenage boy's dream - a whole host of scantily dressed girls gyrating to try to prove that they have what it takes to be the next great slu - sorry, burlesque dancer. (A what?) Apparently now every teenage girl's dream as well.

I thought being sexy was for the boys. If I go out in my 'check 'em and weep, boys' bra, it's for the boys. I would never dream of getting all tarted up, getting a bunch of girls to check me over and then ask if I was hot enough and let them point out my flaws. And you know what? It's bad enough that we DO do it for the boys. Unfortunately, I've never had a guy walk up to me and say "Phwoar, your degrees are so hot. And your kind nature really turns me on." (He'd probably get quite a good response, though.) But to do it for our fellow girls in order to establish a hotness pecking order?

The thing that gets me is that these women get paid to act this way! There is money in skankiness! Lots of it! Just look at Paris Hilton! It's almost enough to make any girl hide her brains and flash her boobs. And the way things are going, that's what the next generation of girls will do.

Unfortunately, along with all the teenage boys, dirty old men and pre-pubescent impressionable females, I'm probably going to tune into the first episode. It's like driving past an especially gruesome accident. (And besides, if you're going to bag a show, you really should watch at least one episode.) Actually, my best friend and I are making a party of it. We're arming ourselves with those irritating party blowers in order to express our feelings in the really bad bits. We'll eat M&Ms (to make sure we'll never be 'hot like them', but don't worry, we have brains and talents and careers and stuff) and spend the ad breaks yelling at each other about how degrading this is.

What I want to know is what happens to the Pussycat Dolls in twenty years time? If instead of intelligence or talent you've based your career on being 'hot like me'and asking people to 'loosen up my buttons', what happens to you after your boobs sag and you've sacrificed your stomach muscles to a baby or two? Maybe we need to ask the question - where do Pussycat Dolls go to die?

Pussycat Dolls - Where Are They Now? Now that's a show I'll be tuning into!"




And in last Sundays's episode (yes, I've now watched more than one) some girl got voted off because - get this - she was TOO SKANKY. They called her Striperella. The shame. Too skanky for the Pussycat Dolls. To be completely fair, I didn't think she was any skankier than the other girls. I really liked her, actually. In a condescending sort of way of course.


Thank you for being there, people. Thank you for reading this and letting me express my pain so that I feel heard, so I don't feel alone. Thank you for loving me.

Thank you Mama. Thank you for birthing me, raising me, letting me go and then taking me back. Thank you for being there, thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me and taking on the pain that's associated with loving me. I love you more than I will ever have words for.

God bless us, every one. (Thank you, Tiny Tim.)

With much love,

Jess