I'm okay, you're okay

I read somewhere, just after my diagnosis, that one day soon I'll wake up and not have the c-dawg as my first thought of the day. It's true, it does happen. Not every day, but I've chalked up enough clear-headed wakeups, noontimes, evenings and nights that I now have these mini moments of panic where I think, am I taking this jerk seriously enough?

At chemo, kicking back with a mag, some saltines and my iPhone, the distraction is momentary. I need only look around me, at the other bald heads in various stages of the disease to see it doesn't fuck around. I get big doses at medical appointments and blood draws, where I get this focused medical attention that makes me feel simultaneously loved and otherworldly. I have this rockin' library now that I can only devour in small bites because... well, because it makes me feel like I have cancer. I get a solid week every three weeks of feeling like ass and wondering if I'll ever enjoy another glass of wine, a banana, a good tooth-brushing, a solid sleep, a bloody steak again. And my family, who is so used to my lack of hair and having me around more often that it's almost one big normal scene now.

And then I read about the husband of the MP who suddenly discovered a football-sized tumour in his gut and is hoping beyond hope that a recent bone marrow transplant will prolong his life. I hear about the wife of a celeb who got cancer three years ago and finally "succumbed", as if to an ever-present temptation of death. I discover stories upon stories of men and women who get the aggressive kick of cancer, like me, and chemo doesn't work. And I panic.

I get so caught up in trying to live a normal life and not making everyone worry about the "what ifs" that I forget that this could all turn to horseshite in an instant, in so many ways. Should I be praying to Saint Philomena every night? Should I be doing something to remind myself daily that this ain't no ordinary life? It's exhausting to even think about, on top of my obsessions with food, cosmetics, exercise, work, money and Mad Men.

I'm thinking I'll go with my gut on this, because damn, September 3 and the last of my effing brutal nausea-inducing chemos is creeping up quickly and I'd like to enjoy a glass of vino before then.