Okay, maybe not the final final countdown. There's the one until my surgery date. There's the one until I get my porno implants. There's the one until I have my first post-cancer mammogram. The one where I mark off five years since cancer. Then 10 years. Aw, fuck it. I gots five more radiation treatments left and I'm in the mood for a bloody countdown.
I get a double dose tomorrow, then singles the rest of the week, then I'm outta the Birch room at the clinic for evah. The ladies there have been lovely and all, but my left chestal area is not feeling so grand these days. Like the worst sunburn on some parts of my skin that have never seen the sun. I got some super-duper cream from the nurse last week, but in all, the takers that care seem to be copacetic with how everything looks. Basically, until I start displaying open blistering sores, they're good. Doesn't mean rolling over at night, putting on clothes and showering doesn't hurt like a mofo.
Speaking of countdowns, we're 11 days to PS and I think that's grand. We're planning to spend one day in L.A. while we're down there, eating in Gwyneth's restaurants, visiting Craig Ferguson and tooling around the Hollywood Farmer's Market to take pictures of Lisa Rinna's lips and Katie Holmes' chaperones. Fun, fun, fun! Mostly though, I'm looking forward to reclining by the pool with a giant sun hat and sunglasses and reading sex books about werewolves (yes, I'm talking about you, TL).
Unlike other holly days, I am going to try to make an effort to support my juice obsession and plant consumption habit. I feel so good that to throw it all away for eight days of pork belly and wonderbread sandwiches seems foolish. This isn't to say I'll turn my nose up at every martini that comes my way, just that I'll make sure the olives within are organic and picked by fair trade lesbian farmers in Guatemala. Standards, people.
The thing that has been poking me in the arse over this whole cancer thing is not the idea that I deserved this because of what I'd been eating (which was relatively healthy) but that if we start with the fact that we all have cancer cells, and then add in that I had particular going on in my body (extra production of estrogen? who knows), a family propensity for not being able to fight off the c-dawg so easily, and an unknown dosage of other environmental factors and voila. Cancer at 37. It happens. I'm not unique. But because it happened to me at this relatively young age, it's a big signal to me that cancer likes to win and win early in my bod. So the fuck if I'm going to be all "let the doctors work their magic" and not try to combat this thing with fabulousness of juice and good food as my medicine.
I'll do it, y'all. You'll see.