Monday, December 19, 2011

I think...


...that Robert Pattinson may be my new hair idol, for no other reason than because my hair is growing that way. Ahem:





I can't wait until I get to this stage:



Friday, December 9, 2011

Xeni Jardin

Last week a Boing Boing blogger named Xeni Jardin went to get a mammogram after two of her friends had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She live tweeted the appointment to bring awareness to the need for mammograms, but also to ease her own nerves, or in her own words, "to make the unknown and new feel less so." By the end of her appointment, she found out she had breast cancer.

I thought about her all day after I read that. I told Cody and Dad about it at dinner after we moved my stuff in, and we all just kind of shook our heads, lost for words, at the awfulness of it.

I imagine, even though she's a professional blogger, that it must've taken guts to reveal her diagnosis on Twitter, almost in real time. And then she wrote a really beautifully articulated piece on Boing Boing where she describes the outer body experience perfectly via an extended metaphor about space:

"I do not know all of what's ahead. I know a little. I know that there is a new kind of life on the other side of this thing. A changed mind and body. A new appreciation of time, and breath, and health, and life, and loved ones.

The gravity in this place is different. I've spoken to others who've traveled out here, too, and returned home safely. When you become one of them, you learn quickly that you share a language others can't understand."

It comforts me to know she seems to be looking forward to the positive ways in which her life will change. Mrs. Rapp always talked to me about "the other side" when I was diagnosed, and I can now say that it is definitely a Real Thing. There are moments when the thoughts whirring around in my head just halt to a stop and I think, "Wow, here I am. On the other side." I don't know if those moments--the ones where I stop to just appreciate the sensation of sucking air up through my nostrils--even existed for me before the Hodge. I don't think they did. But they do now, and I really hope they do for Xeni someday, too.


Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Some advice on sutures...

If you're showering a few weeks after you've had your port removed, and most of the weird glue bandage has dissolved, and you notice something that looks like the end of a string hanging out of one end of the wound, you should proooobably contact your surgeon after the full body chills of disgust subside. Because that ain't supposed to be there. (I'm not even going to write "don't pull it" because I hardly think that needs to be said/I can't stomach the thought.)

The good news is that once your doctor confirms that it is indeed a suture that your body is desperately trying to expel from itself, it's easy for him to remove it. A few yank yanks here and a snip snip there, and you're done.

Just in case anyone was wondering.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Mission: Redecorate=Accomplished

It took getting cancer to realize I'm happiest when I'm writing. It took getting cancer to make me a more patient person. And it took getting cancer for me to redecorate my apartment.

I'm not even kidding that much with that one. When I was sick, I promised myself that when I moved back to Brooklyn, I'd make my living space a positive, happy place with the end goal of living a positive, happy life. I can also be a huge homebody (or to use a term Jenna coined, "house cat") so I need my place to be extremely cozy.

Living at my parents' for the past 8 months has shown me how an abode ought to be treated and maintained (translation: my mom has made me a clean freak), so this past week while I was house sitting, I did a huge scrub down and prepped my room for a face lift. And after a trip to Ikea with Andrew, we finally took our living room from this:


September 2010 (the day we signed our lease)


To this:


Well, I mean, that didn't happen in a day. But it's a huge step up from THIS:


which was last December. (Hi, Hope.)

Yesterday my dad came in and spent all day helping me hang shelves, pot racks and sconces, as well as with painting my room an extremely lovely shade of lilac, so a lot of my progress is owed to him. (Recurring theme of my life? My parents being the best and most supportive, helpful people in the universe? Yep.)

Even though there's nothing in my room besides a bed, a bag of clothes and a chair with a lamp on it, it already has good juju. And I caught some great, solid zzz's in it last night (despite having no idea where I was when I woke up for a few seconds.) Knowing this is taken care of has lessened the load of anxieties I had about moving back in. Now to get a job...I'd be floating.


Sunday, November 27, 2011

How to Tell You Have Anxiety About Moving

1. Go to sleep on Friday night. Proceed to dream that:

1a: You are not moving back into your apartment in Brooklyn, but the hippy house you lived in during college--the one with the purple shutters, neon green walls, and dirt. Everywhere dirt. But you're there alone. No roommates in an old house that used to belong to schizophrenic woman and still looks it.

1b: You ARE moving back into your (3 bedroom) apartment in Brooklyn, but with ALL your old college roommates, one of whom is your ex that you haven't spoken to in 2 years.

1c: You're moving back into the insanely gorgeous brownstone you lived in during a brief stint in Albany, for which you paid a paltry sum, but this time you're paying Brooklyn prices.

2. Go to sleep Saturday night. Proceed to dream that:

2a: You get to your apartment, and your roommate painted the living room walls mustard yellow, the molding red, and put down cobalt blue carpeting. Then he asked if you liked the new "pre-school chic" look. You didn't.

2b: You go to use the bathroom, fall into the bathtub, and no one will help you out.

2c: Your room is just a giant closet, plastered with photos of people from your 7th grade tech ed class whose last names you don't even know.

2d: Your dad designed a system of moving your stuff in that was not unlike a log flume down the hallway to your room. Everything got wet.

2e: You ordered a new love seat, but it showed up with a sink in the middle of it, and no one understood why you wanted to send it back.

3. That's pretty much it.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

"Ooh, swish!"

My favorite part was the concept of pants as absolutely and completely audacious, but then I got to 1:00 in.



Friday, November 18, 2011

Ri Ri

On her last album Rihanna sampled Avril Lavigne. "Drunk on Love" from her new album, Talk That Talk, featuring The XX's "Intro" (AKA the song from that awesome 2010 Winter Olympics commercial) is a super sized upgrade.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Hole Time



I got my port out yesterday (Ha.Le.LUJAH.) and guess what, you guys? My port was PURPLE. The whole time!


And honestly, if I'd have known the thing was purple, I might have hated it less. (Because....I'm a fifth grader?) Actually that's probably not even true; I hated that thing from the second they put it in, and now it's out and (I can't believe I'm admitting this) sitting next to me on my bed in a biohazard bag.

Yup.

I've already been called (lovingly, by me best friend) or had it insinuated that I am (by one of the operating room nurses) a total freak for taking it, but I really wanted to examine it up close. The needle hurt a lot every time it went into my chest before chemo, so it's somewhat satisfying to see where exactly the tips ended up. I can actually see the holes in the rubber from the needles. So sticks and stones, people, sticks andddd stones.

For those who don't remember/don't want to wade through Justin Bieber videos to get to my old posts about my port, here's the 411: the type of chemo I was getting would've been risky to administer in a temporary arm IV, so they installed a "power port" in my chest above my right breast and below my collarbone. It was roughly the size of six quarters stacked together. And as you can't just stick something that thick without displacing anything else in your body, they had to (ughhh, grossss, GULP, sorry) "scoop out a pocket" in my chest to create a place for the port to go in.

All summer long I was really careful not to get sun on the scar itself in the hopes it wouldn't be as noticeable in the future, but then I also realized I would probably have a weird, sunken-in, hole-like spot where they port was. I asked my surgeon about it before the surgery, and they told me they minimize that effect by stitching the skin together underneath. I couldn't really picture how that works, but great!

It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be. Like after the placement, I have a two-inch incision stitched or rather glued together by this weird, clear medical glue that will most likely stay on for a few weeks, and the area where the port actually was is only slightly sunken and weird. I'm really sore and protective of the wound (example: the terror I feel whenever my mom stops short while I'm wearing a seatbelt), but I know it'll feel and look better eventually. And I once again have full use and extension of my neck!

But how it looked and felt in my body was only half the reason I resented it so much; it barely ever worked properly on the first go around. Before I could be administered chemo, the nurses would have to draw blood to make sure my white blood cell count was high enough to withstand treatment, and they had to do so from my port. So one of the nurses would stick the needle in and try to extract blood, but every time they ended up pumping the empty syringe 30 times or so, only to have, at best, a tiny trickle of blood come out. I'd then have to go into a private room and lay in all types of positions to try to get enough blood flow for the pump to work: one leg up, now the other, now both, now sit down, now put your arms up, one arm, etc. In the beginning that would be enough, but for the last six treatments--and I am not kidding--I was doing jumping jacks and skipping around the halls of my doctor's office to get my blood pumping. I even tried hula-hooping a little. All of this with a needle in my chest, in front of other patients getting their treatments. I felt like a total moron, plus I barely had energy to skip around, which is why I think I wasn't able to see it as funny as I see it now. But it always worked, and so it became just another weird thing that eventually became normal over the months during treatment.

But that's done, and the port's gone. If nothing else, having a weird, plastic object in my body for the past 6 months has reinforced my notion of breast implants as terrifying, so there's that, too.

The gray part in the middle is rubber, where the chemo needle would go in.
Also, they washed it, I swear.




Monday, November 14, 2011

It's a good day to be French

Or to watch this and pretend I know what they're saying.



Saturday, November 12, 2011

How To Learn That Putting Up a Christmas Tree The Second Week of November is Wildly Inappropriate

Full title: How To Learn That Putting Up a Christmas Tree The Second Week of November is Wildly Inappropriate (Even If You're Just Trying To Put Yourself In A Good Mood.)

1. Come home from a week of house sitting in Brooklyn a little worse for the wear; you went out far too often, ate far too little protein, and witnessed all of your friends actively being adults--going to work, going to school--while you sent out resumes and writing into the ether during the sad hours they weren't around to hang out. Also, you miss GoGo.

2. Fall into a little slump for a few days. Let it sink in that the celebration of being done with treatment is over, and it's time to stop being polite, and get real.

3. Briefly consider applying for the Real World in the days you pass in existentialist crisis. Remember that your mom told you if you ever went on Reality Television (and this was even before they were making reality shows about literally everything), she'd disown you. Consider culinary school. Consider beauty school. Consider dog grooming school.

4. Get what might--might--be a good lead in the career-staring direction and perk up a bit. Run with that tiny bit of... percolation (but mostly run from fear of feeling as depressed as you have been) and decide to get into the Christmas spirit a little early this year, since the holidays make you happy and generally warm-feeling towards the rest of the world.

5. Decide to let your parents in on your preemptive cheer. Proclaim "CHRISTMAS IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER!" at dinner one night, and that it's time to put up the tree. Scoff when your Dad tells you "You're going to ruin Thanksgiving." Realize you have a partner in crime when your mom cocks her head to the side and nods as she considers the calender on the kitchen wall.

6. Assist your mom as she (obsessively) researches which model Christmas tree to buy online, because this is the year she's finally "allowed" to get a new one that doesn't require 8 hours of set up and shaping. Vehemently argue for colored lights against your mom, who wants a "sophisticated" white-lit tree. Find a company that, amazingly, makes a tree that comes pre-lit with both colored and white lights. Marvel at the wonders of technology. What will they think of next?

7. Tell your mom you're going to put the tree up as soon as it comes. Waiver a little bit on that certain announcement when the tree arrives in two large boxes on your doorstep 3 days later, on the 10th of November. Let the boxes sit in the hallway for 18 hours or so, or until Friday afternoon comes along and you realize what your Friday night is going to be. Realize you're not even a little bit mad that you will be spending it in your pajamas.

8. Put on the Taylor Swift holiday station on Pandora; if you're going to do this, you're going to do it right.

9. End up with 5 pieces that look like they just have to be stacked upon one another.

10. Quickly realize that's not true, and neither was the part of the online description of your new Norway Spruce that promised "easy setup" with "no shaping necessary."

11. Insert the bottom section, section E, into the base. Plug the red "male" (ew?) plug from Section D into the red "female" (like, really?) socket in Section E. Same for the yellow plugs. Wait, why isn't D lighting up? Consult the directions. Maybe Section C has the socket in it. Heft Section C onto the pole. No, no, take that one off, I can't get to the plugs in Section E now...

12. Utter strings of obscenities over the next hour as the Christmas music playing in the background becomes ironic and incredibly annoying. Tell your mom "Santa Baby" is, as its core, a song about date rape, causing a debate that's a nice little distraction from the catastrophe at hand.

13. Take a break on the couch while your mom goes up to speak with customer service. Consider burning the tree. Seriously doubt it when she tells you she thinks she figured it out, but humor her. Feel like you cured cancer (haha) when the appropriate sections of the tree actually light up. Apologize for doubting your mother, you jerk.

14. Finally get it set up. Step back and marvel at your tree, which you are controlling via a small remote. (America: the country where even your fake ass Christmas trees come with remotes.)

15. Be reminded by your mom that "you were the one who wanted to do this!" when you say "NO" to her request to put the ornaments on the tree. Trudge up to the attic and get the large box of ornaments down.

16. Notice as you begin putting them up that the usual nostalgic, magical feeling of handling your favorite Wizard of Oz ornaments can't get through the door because the frustration of putting up this freaking tree is taking up all the space in your living room.

17. Put more than half of the very large amount of ornaments you own on the tree. Hear the garage door open, the signal that your dad is home from work. Trepidatiously lead him into the living room and watch as he shakes his head at the tree.

18. Reassure your mom that the branches are not drooping (even though, now that you look at it, they do seem to be wilting a little with the weight of the ornaments) and beseech her to come eat dinner.

19. Drop your fork when she tells you she wants to return the tree and get the one from Frontgate that has wheels and only two pieces. Note that if it wasn't already gone, any inkling of Christmas cheer you may have started this process with would have just gone out the window.

20. Sit on the couch begrudgingly with a glass of wine as your mom begins to remove ornaments. Finally agree the tree has "bad juju," and take pity on your mom when she unsuccessfully attempts to take the top section off. Sustain scratches to your hands as you wrench--literally wrench--the sections of the tree off one another. Yell at your mom to "HUG IT. HUG IT TIGHTER" as you attempt to tie string around each section of the tree so it can fit back into its box.

21. Refill your wine glass and look sadly at the two large, slightly bulging boxes sitting in the spot where an hour ago, a beautiful (yet extremely annoying) tree had stood.

22. Ruminate on the lessons you could learn from this: that rushing headlong into something and spurring yourself on by the desire for a happiness that you know deep down is more sparkle than substance never works out. That even though you wasted hours setting it up and it's a pain to send it back, holding out for the better product (read: person/job) is the smarter thing to do in the end. But mostly that your dad was right--it's too motha truckin early for Christmas.

22a. Maybe don't change the Tay Swift Pandora station as you go to bed that night.

Asshole tree.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Watching the Country Music Awards with my mother

Me: That's it. They keep promising Scotty (McCreery) and they aren't showing him!
Mom: They just said his name. They just said it! He's on next, stay downstairs for 5 more minutes.

45 minutes later (with no introduction, by the way. What is that?)

Me: Is that him? Is that Scotty?
Mom: It's him!
Me: Oh my God, FINAL--
Mom: (ferociously) SHH!

I'm going to miss her when I move out.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Just some thoughts I had after a few beers

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of what it means to deserve something.

People have told me since I got sick that I didn't "deserve" to go through having cancer, and I accepted that like a compliment. But who deserves to do it? Who deserves anything?

I think a lot of people walk around thinking we humans have an innate right to be handled correctly by the universe, which is false. When it comes to fate or luck or whatever you want to call it, we deserve nothing. The pursuit of happiness is written into the basis of the laws that govern our lives, but we so often forget that it's the pursuit and not the actual happiness that is our right.

That being said, I do think we all deserve to be treated properly by one other. We have a responsibility to each other to do that, because how we handle each other's emotions is one of the few things we have under control. Maybe that's why I'm finding it so hard to understand how people trip over honesty like it's a root they didn't see jutting out into their paths.

It might sound like I'm trying to say we all deserve to be loved, but I don't mean to say that--I just mean we all deserve to be respected.

And that's all she wrote, folks.



Thursday, November 3, 2011

How To Be A Good Dogsitter


1. Get to know each other. After all, you're going to be spending a whole week together, so you should know that he's not constantly miserable, but that's actually just his face.




2. If you wake up at 7 am on the first morning to take him out to the bathroom, then again at 8:30, then again at 9, and by 11 he still won't get off his bed, pick him up and put him outside. Do not be startled by the grunts and sighs and general troll noises he will make as you do this.

3. Don't get frustrated when he won't eat his dog food but allow yourself to be impressed at the heights he will go to when begging for people food. Give him a bite of chicken.



4. Take him for walks and let him strut his stuff, as his is wont to do. Receive the most smiles from strangers you've ever gotten in your life. Realize it's not you they're smiling at. Attempt to take the pup up to the park, but realize it's you who's being walked when he takes you right to the door of a doggy toy store. Actually consider buying him a toy before you remember you're unemployed.



5. Lift him up on the bed to snuggle when it's time for bed. Completely reconsider wanting a boyfriend when he farts and snores like every guy you've ever dated. Feel slightly guilty when you lift him back down to the floor.

6. Feel guiltier when the next night you not only move him back down to the floor but actually evict him to his bed in the living room because you just. can't. sleep. with. the. SNORING.

7. Give him some space when he's a little pissed at you the next day.



8. Make it up to him by taking him to a tropical location for some fun in the sun. But make sure it's not TOO much sun.



9. Feel your heart fully liquify at the site of this:


(Also be reminded you have the voice of a 6 year old.)

10. Maaaaaybe let him sleep in the bed tonight with you. Maybe.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Da Brooklynista

Michele Morrissey, the beautiful Brooklynista, wrote a really, really lovely post about me on her blog. You can read it here, but it's probably a better idea to just read the entire blog itself. Mich works in eco-conscious fashion, and her blog is gorgeous and full of inspiration. Thanks, Mich!

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Halloweekend


(This entry is brought to you by the Justin Bieber Christmas album.)

Of all the weird stuff that happened this weekend, I guess the weirdest is that I had a dream last night that Jessica Alba was my cousin and I was defending her acting. This was interspersed with a dream that I saw a collie riding a bicycle standing up. I woke up so creeped out and for a second had no idea where I was. Then I heard GoGo, the dog I'm babysitting, make his weird snarfle snoring sound and remembered I'm house sitting.


This is my new, live-in boyfriend, GoGo.

The apartment is 12 blocks south of Jenna and about 20 from my apartment with Andrew and Sara. I fully feel like this is my own house. I'm loving pretending I live in a place this lovely with a pup this...hilarious. He snores while fully awake, and he begs for food by doing a little jump. I laugh literally every time he runs down the hallway.

SO, Halloween. This year was top of the list good. I look forward to this weekend all year, but this one was special for a reason I think is pretty obvious, but I'll say it anyway: done with treatment. Ahhhhhh. (That was a nice little satisfied sigh.) I was extremely happy with how my costume came out, and the party we had at the apartment was kickass. I saw so many people I haven't seen in a long time, and everyone was so, so nice and congratulatory. I felt really loved and (I always use this word, but) just fortunate that I made it to the other side of this whole thing and my relationships with a lot of people are the stronger for it.

Now that the mush out of my system, pictures:










unintentional fruit salad


Beyonce with child




Despite threats from my skin to quit and walk off my face, I painted myself up again for actual Halloween and went to the village. We tried to get a spot near the parade, but settled on a bar instead. It was really fun, but it's quite possible I overdid it with the vodka, because I had a little mini breakdown on the crowded streets of the village and freaked out that "Cloverfield was happening" when I saw some kind of riot and police lights. I...don't know. I haven't been beer tears drunk in a while (a 7 month while) so I guess I had to get it out of my system.





Bob Ross/Birthday Roy


Kate Middleton and "William"





GoGo typed this entire post, btw











Thursday, October 27, 2011

Beethoven is so hot right now


In all seriousness, one of the most beautiful things humans have ever created.

(In some more seriousness, I have been listening to this non-stop since I heard it last night in the background of a preview for next week's episode of Revenge, and had to call my friend Dan at work and hum it to him so he could remind me of the name.)

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

I'm...done.

At 2:36 this afternoon, I finished cancer treatment.

I would set aside a few seconds to let that sink in, but I let it sink in over a burger at Five Guys with my mom already, sooo...

It's probably the most finite ending I've ever experienced (except maybe for when I quit my job at the State Assembly. I hightailed it out of there and never looked back.) Now there's nothing holding me back from living a happy, productive life. It is a strange feeling though; what's been my reality for the past six months is now very suddenly a part (a big part) of my past. I feel airy and I feel light and I feel happy, but also kind of disoriented. What now?

There will also probably always be that tiny inkling in the back of my mind named Recurrence. When I asked my radiologist last week when I could call myself "cured," he replied with a quote by a famous oncologist on breast cancer: "You can consider yourself cured of breast cancer when you die of something else." I responded with "Jesus Christ." He then kind of backtracked and said Hodgkin's is not as severe a cancer as breast cancer is in terms of recurrence, but I probably won't ever forget that quote. As sobering a thought as it is, it's what's going to keep me vigilant about my health in the future.

Right now, I'm not so excited to get back to my life as I am to move forward and onto the kind of life I want. I want to be able to fend for myself financially, and I want to be able to do so by means of a job I really enjoy, something that fulfills me. I don't want to sit at a desk all day. I don't want to dread waking up. I don't want to wish that the hands on the clock or the pages on the calender would change faster. I spent the good part of a year wishing for that. So, as you may have read in past posts, I figured going to a head hunter would be a good way to move in that direction. Then I met Janet, the Patti Stanger of head hunters.

My friend Jason had gone to her a week before my appointment, and things hadn't gone so well. "She made me have a panic attack and I lay in bed for a day crying. Then I applied to Americorps," he said. So the night before my appointment, I tried on my interview outfit--a pretty Calvin Klein dress and a pair of heels--for my friends. "Sweater or blazer?" I asked Jenna. "Dress for the job you want--blazer," Jenna said.

The morning of the interview, I even went the extra mile (and by "extra mile" I mean "just to feel like I had some say in the style of my hair") and rubbed some mousse on top of my head. I felt beautiful, professional, and confident.

By the time I left after meeting with Janet, I felt like I was wearing this. Literally as if I had walked into her office in a black contractor bag. "I know you want a career in a creative field," she said when I told her I wanted to put my writing skills to use, "But you need to up the ante in your presentation. These companies want someone who looked like they stepped out of Vogue Magazine, not, you know... this," and she made a broad gesture up and down my person. This was all said in a thick Jersey accent. And not for nothing, you guys, but I looked good, okay? Really, I'm not lying. I did. ("Imagine if you wore the sweater?" Jenna asked later. I shudder to think.)

Janet then proceeded to tell me that there was about a 0% chance I'd be able to get a job in a field I actually wanted to work in, and that I basically shouldn't even try. As she continued to talk, any positive energy that remained in my being seeped out of my body. My spirits felt so low that I figured they had probably taken the elevator down to the basement to kill themselves. So by the time she mentioned the "amaaaazing opportunity" in reception at a fabric company, I agreed to send my resume there.

It was like I was made to feel so discouraged that working in reception at a fabric company (italics because that's the precise job I had right before I got diagnosed that I truly loathed with all my being) seemed like my only hope. It was as if the anxiety Janet instilled in me had stomped out all the memories of how many envelopes I'd stuffed and what it was like to page someone over a loudspeaker every time I had to use the bathroom. I was still in that haze when she called me a few hours later to tell me she had set up an interview for the following Monday and that she needed me to "get myself to Ann Taylor and put myself together over the weekend."

It wasn't until I was back on Long Island relaying this information to my parents when I realized the interview would be, at best, a practice interview. Because there was no way I'd be taking that job. I even debated on whether or not to go to the actual interview, but decided it would be completely irresponsible not to.

So yesterday, as I sat waiting to be interviewed, I noted how absolutely pleasant it was to go into an interview with dry palms. (To quote the late, great Janis Joplin, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.") I was given some paperwork to fill out, and "Please explain any gaps in your employment, excepting those concerning personal illness or disability" was the last of the blanks to fill in. Legally, I knew I had no obligation to tell the woman who was interviewing me about the Hodge, but I really feel like it's an important point to make; for one, it explains the um, seven month gap in my resume, and for another, it's a big event in my life that I learned a lot and grew as a person from. It's like, I dunno, the Peace Corps. Except...cancer.

So I told the woman who was interviewing me I had "just gotten over cancer" (just like getting over a cold!), and she was really sweet and congratulatory, and I managed to demonstrate that it had actually been a very positive experience, which she respected. On the whole, the interview went very well, so I called Janet to relay the information as I had been instructed. Perhaps I just wanted to hear one word of approval from her. But when I told her I mentioned the Hodge to the interviewer, she all but bit my head off. "WHY did you tell her that? You didn't have to, you know!" she snapped. I explained that I was well aware of my rights and briefly went into my reasons why I mentioned it, which she cut off by basically telling me I had made myself a liability.

That was Janet's third strike. The first was the entire first time I met her, essentially, and the second was telling me to go to Ann Taylor and not even Ann Taylor Loft.

I don't know where I'm going to end up. I just know where I'm not going to end up. So thanks for showing me that, Janet! Thanks for being awful and kindling a fire in me to work my tail off to find a job I can be proud of. Because I'm going to find one, and you're not going to get commission off of it.

Now that my rant is finished, I am going to help my mom put the final touches on her halloween costume and then probably enjoy a nice glass of wine. Cheers!









Monday, October 24, 2011

Some next level ish...

This is the kind of thing that always makes me wonder what aliens or people from the past would think if they were shown these videos.

I.... don't even have any more words for this.




via Gawker

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Biebs does Christmas


It's pretty grey outside, kinda nippy, and I'm wearing fleece pajama pants with little skiing people on them, so we'll overlook the fact that it's October 19, and talk about Justin Bieber's Christmas song. I thought he'd give Mariah Carey a run for her money, but this is nowhere near the level of "All I Want for Christmas Is You." The best I can say about it is that it's understated, and we may actually be listening to Bieber's voice start to change. That particular event is about 5 years in the making, so it's quite exciting.

One last thing before I put on a hoodie with no shirt or bra underneath like a creepy flasher to go to radiation---has anyone actually ever been kissed underneath mistletoe?? Is it just me who hasn't? Wait..don't answer that.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Busted

Eeeeee my awesome and hilarious friend Bridgette interviewed me for Bust Magazine's site. It made my mom cry, which actually, come to think of it, doesn't say much about it, because my mom has cried at every single entry she's ever read. Literally every one.

OKStupid


I accidentally (and by accidentally I mean "while a little tipsy from a glass of wine last Saturday night") re-activated my OKCupid account, and the site won't let me delete it for a full week! It's like reading something I signed in someone's yearbook in sixth grade. (What's ^? Tech Ed was soo weird. KIT" followed by my landline.)

I'm getting messages from people being like "Hey, I like your photo! You sound neat! blahblah" and I want to write back and be like, "Oh sorry, the person you're reading about literally does not exist anymore. But maybe you'd like Kt 2.0?"

This was my main photo. WHO IS THAT. Also...the hand on the chin? Really?



Which brings me to another musing--Jenna and I were discussing whether or not the Hodge is first date material once I "get out there" again (makes the dating scene sound like an arena.) Do I sneak it in? Like,"I went to college at SUNY New Paltz, I love Robyn, and I actually just had cancer a little bit ago. What's your favorite food?" I'm really not good at keeping my own secrets, and I don't really want to treat the Hodge like a secret anyway, but I could imagine it being awkward. I actually went on a date during chemo, but the guy knew I had cancer beforehand. Imagine dropping THAT bomb if he didn't?




Midnight City


M83 - Midnight City (Clip Officiel) by Spi0n

I would've considered it the height of cool to be in this video as a kid (still would). Especially to be the girl at 2:07.

Monday, October 17, 2011

This is your brain on radiation

People have been asking me lately how radiation is different from chemotherapy, and my eyes always involuntarily roll with exasperation before I remember the very miniscule amount of knowledge about cancer treatment I possessed before being diagnosed. Reading about celebrities' treatment and even hearing extended family and friends' stories does not deliver the details you get when you're actually helping care for someone undergoing treatment, or going through it yourself. And because I was lucky in that no one in my immediate family or small circle of friends had to go through treatment before I was diagnosed, I can't knock people for being ignorant as to how chemo and radiation are different.

Most of my usual knee-jerk reaction comes from the fact that radiation is so much easier to tolerate than chemo that it seems preposterous to compare them. I wake up with a normal-ish amount of energy, I go to the gym, I eat normally. The one side effect I've felt is a sensation that there is a pill in the back of my throat that I didn't have enough water to swallow fully, which previously (besides scraping together rent) would've been the bane of my existence. Now, it's obviously a minor (and I mean minor) annoyance. I've also had a few bouts of itchiness where they're shootin' lasers into my back, but that's it. Like I've said previously, I think in my very first post, Hodgkin's is the cancer to get if you're going to get cancer. (As if I'm recommending a type of Jeep to buy. "You should tooootally get this one.") But once I got past the "Holy...SHIT I have cancer" factor, I realized how lucky I was in how treatable the Hodge is compared to other patients' types.

Physical side effects aside, one of the biggest differences in chemo vs. radiation for me has been my lack of understanding of how radiation works. With chemo, I was literally tethered via an IV to my medicine for three to four hours, while the oncology nurses fluttered around like very smart butterflies who had the answers to every question I threw at them. I was never afraid to ask a question, which is a testament to my doctor and his staff. Radiation's not really the same.

For one, it's a quick process--you're in, you're out in max 15 minutes. After my first few sessions, I wrote about how the technicians were very brusque, and I felt like I was just a task to check off during their work day. So when people would ask me, "How's radiation going?" I would just be like, shrug, "Good," because that's how it appeared to be going. Secondly, which you will know if you've ever seen Broken Arrow (which is incidentally my favorite action film despite being forced to watch it more than twice a month by my older brother when we were little) radiation is not something you can see or feel the immediate effects of. And when things are invisible, they're harder to understand. (Just like...ghosts...and...love.)

After my first week, I switched appointment times and got a new pair of techs who are worlds friendlier and actually take the time to talk to me. As a result, I've been more vocally curious about how everything works, and now actually feel like elaborating on the actual process.

A typical session:

I drive to Stonybrook Hospital's radiation and oncology unit, park, then pass by the extremely unfriendly valet parking attendant, who despite my attempts at pleasant hellos and lots of "thank you's" responds with a face that would be blank if there wasn't just a teeny bit of a sneer on it. I go into the check-in area and spell my last name (usually twice cause it's ridiculous) and then head into the sitting room, where if I'm lucky, the Food Network is on and I watch the Neeley's being so overly affectionate that I wonder if they're faking it for the camera. My name is usually called within a few minutes, and I head back into this room:


It makes me happy to know there was some (probably persistent) kind....radiation room designer (?) at Stony Brook that knew giving patients pretty pictures of nature to look at would actually ease their nerves a bit. Cause that, along with Bob Marley on the stereo, really does serve to relax me.

So after some chit chat with one or both of the techs, I lay down on the metal platform and tuck my legs into this foam mold they made to ensure my body will always be in the same position. Then I flash my techs for a few seconds before they drape a sheet over my boobs and raise the metal platform about ten feet off the floor (which I didn't know was raised until I went to sit up before it was lowered it one day, and Kelsey, one of the techs, was like, "Wait wait wait wait. I've had people fall off before and sue the hell out of me.") Once I'm up there, they line my tattooed dots up with a green laser that comes out of the round part of the machine. On the bottom of that part, there is a screen that kind of looks like an etch-a-sketch, where these metal pins slide into place and create a slide that was custom-made for my treatment. The image that's created in the negative space on the slide is the shape of the part of my chest that they're treating (which I guess is actually the shape of the tumors.) Once I'm all lined up, they turn off the lights and go into another room. A couple of seconds later a buzzing starts and lasts for about ten seconds, during which I notice a sensation that's almost like smelling blood if blood smelled as metallic as it tastes...and was also on fire. At first I thought that was in my head, but after asking Kelsey about it, I learned it's actually common, though he's not sure why it happens. After the lasers zap my chest, the machine rotates around and hits me from the back as well, which is done in order to keep burning of the skin to a minimum. Then I'm done. It's all very exciting.

If you want more science behind the process, this site shows you what is actually happening to the cells. As far as I can understand, it's similar to chemo in that radiation kills rapidly-dividing cells (which cancer cells are) but that it's also killing healthy cells. Quite the delicate dance.

This week is my last full week, with two more sessions on Tuesday, then I'm....finished with treatment. I haven't spoken at length with my oncologist about what comes next as far as another PET scan or blood tests or WHAT that shows that I actually am really done, so I should probably figure that out. I need to ask when I can call myself cured, or if I can I ever really say that. I want to be able to, but I have a hunch the correct phrase is "in remission."

I also just spoke with the doctor who put my port in, and he recommended I wait until radiation's been done for a few weeks before I get the port removed so the healing process isn't slowed. My radiologist had previously told me it would be fine to get the port out during radiation, but something about zapping a fresh wound makes me wary and brings to mind zombies (which...ew.)

I'm meeting with a head hunter this Friday to try and jump start my life, and even though it's not a guarantee she'll be able to find me the job of my dreams, it feels good to be taking physical steps forward in terms of living the life I want to live when I'm done with all this. Baby steps y'all, baby steps.

(Incidentally, that was my exact haircut a few weeks ago.)

Friday, October 14, 2011

Guys, I can do SO much with my hair now!





I just can't believe how fast it's grown and how versatile it's become.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Simple Kind of Life


Obsessing over Gwen Stefani

+

Being domestic

=


This video, and the majority of my Wednesday

Monday, October 10, 2011

Cancer: the best joke to ever happen to me.

Two things happened this weekend--I saw 50/50 with my parents, and I visited New Paltz, and now I'm gonna tell you about them.

1. Seeing 50/50 whilst being treated for cancer was like setting the crown jewel in the tiara of dark humor that I like to put on when I wake up each morning. I just find it more than coincidental that a movie like that came out in the midst of my treatment, and I'm trying to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me by timing it like that. I went in knowing I would relate (the hair buzzing scene in the previews was enough to prove that), knowing I would laugh, and knowing I would cry. All three happened plentifully. Especially the last part (for my mom, over a tuna melt, in the diner, an hour afterward, which made me kind of regret making her see it.)

There's also a good article in the NYT called "Laughing at the Big C" which is pretty interesting.
There's a good discussion in the comments about whether or not you can generally say "Cancer is funny," and I bet you know which side I'd take. I just think I'd be in a really, really bad place if I didn't see the absurdity in everything that has happened in the past few months. Actually, that implies that I've chosen to laugh about it, whereas the actual situation is that it is virtually impossible for me not to. Using humor as a coping/defense mechanism has been something I've done for a while now, and it just so happens cancer is not excluded.

Second thing: Jenna and I ventured up to New Paltz for a night to visit her friend from college, Meg. We sat in traffic for 3 hours in New Jersey (and when I say "sat in traffic" I mean we sang along to Taylor Swift and I made Jenna cry by simply recounting 50/50), but finally arrived at Meg's in the afternoon. She lives in Wallkill, which is about 6 miles out of New Paltz, in a cottage on a horse farm owned by the original drummer from Skid Row (who Meg said generally eschews clothing except for boxer briefs on most occasions.) It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever spent a night. So peaceful compared with the crowds and traffic lacing the streets of New Paltz, and a virtual meditation zone compared to Brooklyn. We didn't venture into New Paltz until after dark, when the college kids began coming out of their dorms for debauchery. The past couple times I've visited New Paltz, I was all, "Oh man I miss it here!" and "It's so great to be back in this mind set, even for the day!" but this weekend I was just looking at the college kids and pondering, not even reminiscing, but pondering what it would be like to feel that way again. What it would be like to have my main source of anxiety stem from procrastination or to have my parents backing me financially.

Ok that last one was a joke since I'm freeloading all over the place right now, but in all honesty, I just could not relate, and it made me feel really estranged from New Paltz for the first time since graduation. I felt like I'd finally outgrown it. It made me a little sad, but it's not as if I want to go back to a time like that. I mean, what I wore in college alone is enough to make me not want to go back.

I'm currently on hold with my doctor's office to set up a time to remove my port. I've wanted that from the minute it was put in, so this is pretty satisfying for me. I mean, I think it will be satisfying, if I ever get off hold.








Wednesday, October 5, 2011

All is well down my pipe

An endoscopy is a quick thing, my friends. At 8:03 I was being wheeled into the OR, and at 8:12 I was eating Graham crackers and drinking apple juice. By 8:15 my doctor was telling me that everything looked ok, except for some inflammation, probably caused by overdoing it with the advil throughout chemo. I got such bad muscle or bone pain from the Nubigen shots I had to get to keep my white blood count up that I would just pop them like candy. They're sending some samples away for biopsies to check on if it could be bacterial at all (which, ew) but I was prescribed some meds to limit acid reflux and given a list of things (all very delicious) that I should avoid right now-- coffee, chocolate, orange juice, alcohol.

All of the nurses were really nice. One of them was like, "We're neighbors! I live a block over from you, and you used to play softball with my daughter," (which I didn't remember but said I did), and another one was like, "We have the same birthday! Well close to it, mine's April 9th." But then my friend and former roommate's mom worked there too, and was like, "Well she used to live with my son, Daniel', and therefore won the nonexistent contest of coincidences involving my life.

I find it really cruel that the day after I openly announce that fall isn't so bad after all, I get a ridiculous head cold. I'm eating Greek yogurt and granola right now, but I don't know why, because I can't taste a damn thing. My go-to defense would be to chug orange juice, so I guess my neti pot and I are on our own.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Y'all, I have given into fall.

I just ate a homemade chicken pot pie for dinner with my folks, and I'm drinking tea in a sweatshirt and pajama pants that have pine trees and little skiing people on them. I hate skiing, but they're mad cute.

I have to get an upper endoscopy tomorrow morning to check out what's going on in my stomach. They sedate you, they send a little lighted camera down your throat to check out what's going on, which kind of reminds me of The Frizz:

Yes, let's.

The appointment is at 6:45 am, which kind of makes sedating me pointless. I don't become a functioning human being for about two hours if I wake up before 9. I'm not really looking forward to it, mainly because I don't understand how an involuntary action like choking or gagging doesn't happen. Though I guess the unconsciousness helps with that.

Radiation has been going well, I suppose. I had my fifth session out of 20 today, which puts me at being done around October 24th, less than 3 weeks from now.

Oh God, just got a wave of anxiety because usually by now I will have done 3 or so dress rehearsals of my Halloween costume (which consists of me hanging out in my room for a few hours in full makeup) but I don't even have anything together yet. I have, however, been keeping a file on my desktop of inspiration.

Anyway, I switched to an earlier time slot, which resulted in me being treated by a different, much friendlier tech than last week. I actually felt good asking him some questions concerning how radiation actually works. I mean, I didn't get much further than ascertaining that the lasers are shot into my chest first, then my back to avoid crisping my chest too much, but I felt a lot more comfortable with the new guy than the others.

This past weekend I went to a bar in Astoria and the bouncer told me he liked my "haircut." I was so close to being like ,"OH, you mean my hair GROWTH but thanks so much," but realized it was best to stick to the last half of that response.




Friday, September 30, 2011

Just a quick question..

WHY are they remaking Footloose? A ban on dancing barely made sense in 1984; it is a virtually impossible concept to base a movie on in 2011.

And yet.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Radiation Nation

I had my first two radiation seshs. Coming from my oncologist's office, where the nurses gave me one of those zumba coin waste tie thingies just because they thought I'd one day have fun wearing it (which is accurate), I was a little less enchanted with the people at the radiologist's. You know when you can tell people are being fake friendly because they're at work and they have to? And like polite in an aggressive way? Most of the techs seemed a little like that. They were just very brusque, which I guess I get--they have a lot of patients, and since the procedure is pretty quick, they kind of have an wham bam way of getting people in and out. Whuhevs.

I've been going to spin class the past couple days, and aside from it kicking my ass, it feels rull good to be building myself back up physically. Every time I want to go easy in class, I tell myself "Nope, you did chemo, you can turn the resistance up, LAZY." That and the instructor makes a pointed comment about "pushing through" if she sees someone turning the dial down, so it's less embarrassing to just deal with it. It's easier when the music is good, though you'd be surprised at how inspirational you'll find "In the End" by Linkin Park when it's the last song of class.

I also think my short hair makes me look tough when doing bicep curls. So there's that for motivation, too.

I've been going to my friend JW's every Wednesday night for dinner and a few episodes of the OC (which I had never seen--I am the only white 20-something person I know who hasn't), and I've decided to just keep dessert coming every week rather than taking a meal turn. I had to share this one: Caramel Apple Cheesecake. Ain't she a beaut?