Translate

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Not lol. Loll.

I don't lol. I don't mean laugh out loud - if you know me, you know I do that raucously. I mean I don't write "lol" to signify I am laughing out loud. I am nearly 57 and it isn't becoming. I would have cringed had my mother said "far out" as an exclamation in my youth, and no doubt Love Child would cringe at my writing "lol" in social media or anywhere else. (I do write WTF in text messages, but he doesn't usually read my texts, so he is spared embarrassment.)

In any case, I do not lol, but I do loll, as in around. As in lollygag. Summer increases my need to loll, particularly in the sun, and Vermont has only intensified the need this summer, because the air smells so darn good, like green, like cool water. 

Right now, I'm staying in a lovely house with a screened porch, complete with a sun-loving kitten who shows absolutely no guilt about lollygagging. He works hard and fast in the morning, knocking things off the shelves, chewing on my computer, spinning a pen across the floor, licking my breakfast, then curls up in the sun by me and yawns. He is an excellent teacher; now I work hard and fast in the mornings, too, and when the sun starts leaning in through the screens, I curl up and yawn. 

Chemo has given me a very particular justification for lolling. When I feel horrid, I need to focus on something to both remember and look forward to, and on the scale of great things to remember and look forward to, lolling in the sun in Vermont ranks in the nosebleed level of the range, way up there. I'm grateful for my teacher. 





Thursday, July 17, 2014

If I were you, I wouldn't read much further...

Really, this is just going to be more chemo grumbling; useless venting.

I seem to have reached the point of fed-up a bit short of the point of finished. My patience is worn not only thin, but off, like the soles of my favorite Merrells. I've worn through two pairs so far, replacing them when the soles had turned to holes, but for this, I have no idea where to go for replacement.

I'd like to stop complaining and catastrophizing, and I'd like my real life back, the one with normal chaos and annoyances, like dog hair and the service light on in the car. I'm weary beyond reckoning of being bone tired, feverish, weak, nauseated, brain-addled, and in pain.

I'd like to once again be a nice person to live with: one who is cheerful, helpful, generous, positive, and cooks good things, instead of someone who runs from the smell of coffee or lettuce (chemo and lettuce: very VERY bad) Who wants to live with a retching wretch? Certainly not me.

So, yes, I understand that I have to do this one more, one last time. July 31. But I don't have to like it.