Fine thanks!
Not too bad.
Erra okay.
Getting there.
Good now thanks.
Great!
It's a bit hard for people to know what to say to a person who is having chemotherapy. Mostly because they don't really expect to see you.
You should be at home in bed with a bald head, wrapped in a cosy crocheted rug, with a pale watery smile on your face.
They shouldn't have to meet you at work, or at a party, or doing the shopping.
They should be coming to you, with caring faces and the shoulder-drop of pity, bearing cake and sympathy. Then they'd know what to say. But a non-sick sick person is a bit of a head-scratcher.
And of course, the sick person is actually a bit sick all right. She has pain and aches in most places. She has a headache and a dry mouth and sore skin. She has unpredictable stomach cramps and dodgy bowels. But she's not going to get into that in the corridor or supermarket aisle. So she'll say she's fine in a range of ways which, if you listen closely, will tell you where she's really at on the symptom spectrum.
I'm in today for my second cycle of chemo. It seems like longer than two weeks since I was last here. We've been busy. I have had some new side effects that unsettled me a bit, but they may also have come from trying to learn to cycle. (Yes people, laugh all you like, this 39-year-old can't ride a bike.)
The side effects are going to get worse, and I might have to stop working, or I might have to spend more time in bed. My skin is going to go pustular. My hair will thin, but there's so much of it it's very unlikely anyone will notice. (I will have to start vacuuming the house more often to scoop up all the hair. But the steroids make me clean maniacally anyway so it's all good.)
I still won't look very sick in the classic TV-cancer way.
I think some people may be beginning to think I'm making it all up. My godmother thinks the doctors have got it all wrong.
She pretty much always thinks this about doctors. And she's generally right.
She is nearly 90 years old and has not changed in any way in the nearly forty years I have known her. (Although sometimes, now, she doesn't whitewash the house and paint the kitchen ceiling on the same day.) She digs her potatoes, manhandles various farm animals, makes a three-course meal for anyone who arrives at her door. She has an iron spirit and a heart of fluffy marshmallows. She pays no attention to ill-health or ageing.
She is my hero and I want to be like her.
So when you ask, I will say, "I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now, where's that paintbrush?"
You should be at home in bed with a bald head, wrapped in a cosy crocheted rug, with a pale watery smile on your face.
They shouldn't have to meet you at work, or at a party, or doing the shopping.
They should be coming to you, with caring faces and the shoulder-drop of pity, bearing cake and sympathy. Then they'd know what to say. But a non-sick sick person is a bit of a head-scratcher.
And of course, the sick person is actually a bit sick all right. She has pain and aches in most places. She has a headache and a dry mouth and sore skin. She has unpredictable stomach cramps and dodgy bowels. But she's not going to get into that in the corridor or supermarket aisle. So she'll say she's fine in a range of ways which, if you listen closely, will tell you where she's really at on the symptom spectrum.
I'm in today for my second cycle of chemo. It seems like longer than two weeks since I was last here. We've been busy. I have had some new side effects that unsettled me a bit, but they may also have come from trying to learn to cycle. (Yes people, laugh all you like, this 39-year-old can't ride a bike.)
The side effects are going to get worse, and I might have to stop working, or I might have to spend more time in bed. My skin is going to go pustular. My hair will thin, but there's so much of it it's very unlikely anyone will notice. (I will have to start vacuuming the house more often to scoop up all the hair. But the steroids make me clean maniacally anyway so it's all good.)
I still won't look very sick in the classic TV-cancer way.
I think some people may be beginning to think I'm making it all up. My godmother thinks the doctors have got it all wrong.
She pretty much always thinks this about doctors. And she's generally right.
She is nearly 90 years old and has not changed in any way in the nearly forty years I have known her. (Although sometimes, now, she doesn't whitewash the house and paint the kitchen ceiling on the same day.) She digs her potatoes, manhandles various farm animals, makes a three-course meal for anyone who arrives at her door. She has an iron spirit and a heart of fluffy marshmallows. She pays no attention to ill-health or ageing.
She is my hero and I want to be like her.
So when you ask, I will say, "I'm fine, thanks for asking. Now, where's that paintbrush?"
A wonderful tribute from one amazing woman to another
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