Chemotherapy.
Round 3.
I was a bit disappointed that there wasn't a scantily clad lady in high heels walking around the ward holding up the number on a card, with a bell in the background going "ding ding!"
But that would perpetuate the "fight" theme which cancer-types either love or hate. As in, "she fought bravely", or "...after a long battle".
Some cancerheads feel that this kind of talk makes people who die from cancer losers, or weak, or poor strategists, or surrender-monkeys. Which is a bit harsh all right.
I intend to have a very heated debate with cancer, and win on points because of my witty repartee and cunning use of populist humour.
The clever use of words will have to be supplemented by the ugh-inducing use of cytotoxic drugs, though. I accept this. Doesn't mean I was bounding in there this morning, delighted to be back in the squeaky chairs and eating mediocre food.* But it has to be done, and sure doesn't it give me something to write about.
Once again, my failure to actually write anything useful on this weblog has bitten me on the ass. Like, wouldn't it have been helpful to document how I felt during the last two blasts of gunk? I could have made a list of the things I would do differently next time, like starting the anti-pizza-face meds before the pro-pizza-face stuff started. Like ordering the super-soft toothbrush the dentist recommended, which is apparently called a Nimbus (the fact that he made no reference to Harry Potter when he mentioned this did worry me somewhat). Like remembering that my short-term memory will be pathetic, and anything requiring brainpower will need to be postponed until another time in the fuchsia.
Like that I tend to mix up my words.
(Just asked MTC to pass me a packet of sweet and sour Hula Hoops).
So bear with me here while I witter on in increasingly non-sensical prose.
Gotta keep that clever counter-argument going, you see.
*
Medi-ochre. Geddit?
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