Fear and Loathing.

There is a line in Hunger Games (the movie) where Peeta says, "If I am going to die, I still want to be me." Or something like that. He is talking about how the games may change him, how he may have to kill people, etc. The quote occurs very early in the movie and it had me crying through the rest of it. Cancer is my own "hunger game." I am fighting so hard, and cancer will change you. It changes you physically. It changes you emotionally. I have lost myself in this fight.

For one, my body ain't mine anymore. Whose "boobs" are these? I have no freaking hair. I told my friend the other day that I was going to ask my doc about all these damn freckles. I am sure chemo is causing a massive freckle outbreak. My friend laughed her butt off. She tells me I have always had freckles. I have?

I have headaches all the time. I am sure the chemo is wreaking havoc on my brain. I can't think of words. My sentences get stuck in my throat. Where was I going with that thought? I tackled my college's math problem of the week a few days again and got stumped. What if this medicine is making me stupid? Who am I without my mind? I feel like I am living "Flowers of Algernon." Remember that book? Does the fact that I remember it make me less stupid? I think it does and am temporarily relieved.

I am tired. So tired. You aren't a good warrior when you are tired. The "me" I want to be isn't lazy. (I am sure like the freckles though that I have always had a little lazy in me.) I can't have this cancer situation turn me into someone else. I guess the truth is I never really thought about "me" before this. I am not talking about Anna the teacher or Anna the mom or Anna from eastern North Carolina...just plain old me. Who is Anna? She isn't her boobs. (I once was! I had a good run with that rack.) I am more than a thinker, more than a feeler.

I remember in a college ancient philosophy class, my professor talked about the concept of a university. What made a university? Was it a group of buildings? We all agreed that it wasn't just a group of buildings. My professor looked right at me in that class and asked me what made me Anna. When I was a little baby in a crib, was that still me? Yes, I replied. Still me. I think of that scene all the time now. This body with my poor excuse for boobs and no hair is still me. This body will change many times before it ends. My mind will go through its own transformations. Still me.

Also recently, I watched another movie- "Rum Diaries" which besides giving me Johnny Depp eye candy, gave me more to contemplate. Mainly, I've been thinking about Hunter S. Thompson. What a weird dude...weird when he was sober, weird when he wasn't. Yet this guy had some essence that certainly made him Hunter S. Thompson. So do I. So do you. I can't help but like crazy old Hunter S. Thompson.

Here is Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note (and don't worry, I am NOT in danger of that. Please.)

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

I feel the weird guy's pain. My changes are no fun and boring, too, but I, unlike crazy man, I got hope. I am not out of rum, and if this blog post seems looney-tune and incoherent to you...well, blame it on the chemo.

Friends Forever

The following was written by my true treasure of a friend, a friend that has seen her own troubles and came out the other side. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it. It made me cry...and then it made me smile.

How Did You Do It?
The question most often asked when someone learns of my past.
This is all I know to tell you my friend- you can.
I didn’t do it for the team,
I didn’t do it for the boys.
I didn’t do it for his memory,
I didn’t do it with His help.
I didn’t do it for myself.
I slowly extended my big toe- it wiggled.
I flexed my foot back and forth.
I rotated my ankle…
Then I put my foot down.
The other one followed, they’re attached you see.
After many of such exercises, I made it to the end of the street…then the month…then the year.
I don’t know why it worked- but I was in motion
Still am.
So are you.
I’ll see you at the end of the street.

Written by CM

Chemo Eve

I think the day before chemo is really almost as bad as the treatment itself. The impending suckiness of the treatment just ruins anything good in the day. It is all I can think about. Chemo Eve gives me an instant case of Tourette's. I cuss like a sailor, taking on the most sour mood. Nobody takes it personally. They count the days left in this cancer prison just like I do. I know I will live through this, yet I wonder what the cost will be to my spirit, my relationships and my family.

Today's top bad side effect of this cancer crap...apathy. As in- frankly, my dear, I just don't... care. This is exceptionally sad in my case, as I have always been proud of my advocacy. The pre-cancer Anna expended so much energy on her kids, her career, her social and political causes. That old Anna would already be researching summer programs for her kids. She would be finishing her dissertation, running for school board, drilling her son on SAT vocabulary and planting her flower garden. I am a shell of that woman these days. On my lowest days, it takes all I have to get out of bed. My kids do their own laundry, make their own meals, answer their own homework questions. I go days without answering emails and texts, grateful for people that care when I so often don't. On those days immediately after treatment, I plead to just be left alone in my dark room. It matters little to me that there is no milk or clean towels. Nothing matters.

In the beginning, I was sure I would care. I sometimes see these super polished ladies in the cancer center. They have on full makeup, dressed in their best. Their bright red lipstick outlines a super smile. I was going to be *that* woman, and yet, here I sit. I am still in the same yoga pants and fitted tshirt I wore yesterday, an outfit I purchased ironically so I could actually practice yoga and get well. Yesterday, I ate three ice cream sandwiches and a handful of potato chips. This from the girl that was going to juice her way to health. I mostly forgot how to care. Almost.

Right now I am going to find just enough energy to take a shower and put on real clothes. I have a meeting on campus this afternoon. I had originally thought I might try to shop this morning before the meeting. My kids have outgrown most of their dress clothes. Caleb has no good belts or dress shoes. I hear other mothers chatter about new Easter dresses and the like. I want to care about that, too. I want us to have new Easter outfits. Right now, I think I might have it in me to shop... as long as it is an all-in-one store with a cart...maybe Target or Marshalls. I do, however, know what is coming. I know I have chemo tomorrow. I know Sunday that I will be back in my apathy cave. Keep praying for us, folks. Pray that on Sunday, I care enough to get out of bed. Pray that I care enough to make my kids shower and put on new clothes that fit. Oh Chemo Eve...I really hate you.