Friday, January 22, 2010

Well, this week has really sucked ass. I suppose when you kickstart a week with your first trip back to the chemo ward in I don't even know how many fucking months, it's not a good omen. Herceptin is given to me in the chemo ward even though it's not chemo. There are no side-effects.

I've been in excruciating back pain from the fucking Xeloda cycle Norton suggested. Tomorrow will be two fucking weeks I've been off this shit! Imagine just how toxic a drug is that takes that long to get out of your system. I tried everything—even (unaffordable) acupuncture sessions two days in a row. Finally, after going to Vinyasa yoga yesterday and not being able to do like one-half of what Nicolay was teaching and barely being able to handle 40 mins of cardio afterward, I hit a physical wall. And I just had to give in. I called Schwartz for Vicodin. Even those didn't help more than just fucking me up. So yesterday from about 3 p.m. till midnight, I marooned myself on the couch with my Tempurpedic pillow, Wally, heating pad etc. It's so comforting with Wally, who knows when I'm in pain and hangs tight with me. What will I do without my little booger? The longest opposite-sex relationship I'll ever have—14 years.

Wednesday, I got an odd call from Shrink. Below conversation is taken from an email to a mutual friend and patient. (I write emails in all lowercase and I ain't fixing it here.)

"so, ilan calls me from his cell today in a very non ilan [professional] demeanor/voice:

"i'm with pharmacist and we think there's a drug out there that might be good for you."

"mentally or physically?"

"both! it's a synthetic form of marijuana."

"you mean marinol?"

"yes! [like we'd never discussed this before. we have. several times]."

"yeah, but you said i'd have to eat a whole bottle to get high."

"true! but a pill or two might give you the same effect and then you wouldn't have to keep making your brownies." [though i find baking brownies fun and therapeutic.]

so, i uh think that ilan and pharmacist basically marijuana "Intervention"ed me and are attempting to placate my weed addiction and enjoyment of with marinol. wtf. only me. nonetheless, i have a bottle of marinol in the fridge."

I got a real kick out of the fact that it reads (handwritten) on the label: "refrigerate." Just like real weed! I'm only on 5 mgs now, and clearly a pothead like me will need a higher dosage.

So let's take stock of just what I ingested yesterday to numb body and mind. I'm at the point of crying in public again. I wanted to bawl yesterday in yoga. I'm usually so good at yoga—the only 'sport' I've ever been good at. So much so that when I'm not up to par, the instructors actually throw in poses that they think would help me. Yeah, the Equinox instructors—esp Javier on Saturdays and Joey and Nicolay for those of you SoBe members—are amazing.

Back to yesterday. Came home, popped a Marinol. (Kinda nice, mellow high a la Xanax or Klon.) Popped a Vicodin. Didn't help. Popped another Vicodin. Watched The Invention of Lying—couldn't have gotten through this week without Gervais, and those of you who think he sucked at the Golden Globes, well, I don't think I can be friends with you anymore. And part of Inglorious Basterds, which I am enjoying despite my dislike of Tarantino's—uber-pathetic-shoot-em-up-pseudo-masculinity and Brad Pitt's horrific overacting. I mean really, he's gotten as bad as Jason Schwartzman.

Anyway, two Klons before bed, another two Vicodins and still restless sleep—though better than I've had all week.

Sigh. What. Ever. I wonder if I moved to a city where nobody knows my name if I could lead a normal life. A life where every cute guy I meet doesn't know that I'm a dead woman walking. At the very least, it would be nice to fall in love before I bite it.

Moreover, Lady Gaga every time I turn on the TV—what is the BFD? The new Madonna? I don't think so. She's unattractive, her style is beyond atrocious—Thierry Mugler meets Patricia Field in the 90s—and her songs are good, but still. What is the big deal? I don't get it. Then again, I contend that nobody past present or future will top the music of my parents' generation. Beatles, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, etc and Lady Gaga. Pshaw.

Yeah, I'm hating everything and nearly everyone this week, most especially myself, natch. So what. Cut me some slack. At least—sliver of a silver lining—the weather is beautiful and I can go soak my sorrows in the sun and pool downstairs. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. Hope everyone else's week has been better than mine. And if not, do share your craptastic stories in comments. A group vent may not be a bad idea.