Goob Is GoofyI hope Disney doesn't sue me.

xkcd posted this while I was going through chemo. I found it oddly comforting.

I asked my Oncologist if “the R word” applied to me yet. He thought I was asking if I was retarded.

My brain has always worked faster than my mouth. In a debate, I always end up shooting myself in the foot by stumbling over my tongue. That’s why I enjoy writing. To hell with making your point on the first try, in real time no less! My typical method for an article is to pound it out all at once, edit, re-edit, wait a few hours, edit some more, wait a few days, edit some more, and finally force myself to publish the damn thing before I end up rewriting every word.

I took the exact opposite approach with this post.

I didn’t want to type anything before I knew for certain because I’m superstitious inasmuch as I can jinx myself. It happens every time. I’m winning in a game? Trash talk seals my opponents crazy comeback. I mention it’s nice the plane is taking off on time? We stop halfway down the runway due to a broken flimflark. So the thought of writing this post ahead of time felt like an unnecessary tempting of fate I couldn’t afford.

Luckily yesterday my doctor said I’m officially in remission. He went on to say I’m not cured, obviously, and it could come back at any moment but I had kind of tuned him out by that point. My tumors were gone! All that self-groping hadn’t been in vain!

I plan on telling this individually to all my friends and family members, but until then, I just wanted to proclaim a public “rock the fuck on” to them. The support of Hiffers was fantastic, but I don’t want to ever make it sound like I was in this alone. Those around me stepped up their game and were simply awesome throughout this whole ordeal. I couldn’t have done it without them and I hope they know how much I appreciated their support.

Now, onto the next challenge life throws my way. Hopefully this one doesn’t involve boatloads of poison.

I miss the dreams. That’s more than I thought I would.

I finished my last round of chemo a few weeks ago. I’m still in the “sit around twiddling your thumbs while we make sure everything worked” stage. It’s fantastic. Wait. I think I misspelled that. It’s fucking frustrating.

To be honest, I spent most of last month focusing on little battles that I didn’t realize I cared about. Being forced to eat with plastic utensils wasn’t a burden until I found that metal spoons didn’t ruin my cereal anymore. Suddenly the extra 15 seconds I saved in not rooting for a plastic spoon was precious.

One of the more recent battles I think I’ve won is with my hair. Not on my head – that I couldn’t care less about. With my family, it’s a given that I’ll be bald in a decade. No, what suddenly had me worried over the past few weeks was whether or not my facial hair would come back in full strength. I don’t have a lot of skills. I excel at making puns. I’m kind of flexible due to my gangliness. And I can grow a badass beard. I haven’t had one in a few years, but knowing that it was an option every morning was something that I didn’t realize I’d ever miss.

Yet here I was, as recently as last week, waking up every morning with peach fuzz that any 12 year old could beat. My state of excessive body hair could fill a post of its own. And, geez, the places where I lost hair vs. retained it … I still don’t get it. There are long strips down my leg where it’s hair, no hair, hair, no hair. I look like I tried shaving racing stripes onto my body.

But guess what. I woke up on Thursday with black, glorious stubble under my nose. That’s the spot that held out the longest when I was losing it and I love the idea of it leading the charge back. In a world where its only claim to fame is the Hitler mustache, it’s nice to see it get a little love.

Obviously most of these have been things I’ve missed from “before.” In the grand scheme of things, they weren’t important. But I never thought I’d miss something from during the chemo. They finally vanished a few weeks ago. I knew it was going to happen, I’d figured out where they were coming from and could see them fading away like they do every morning. I’m just happy I was at least able to experience them for two months.

Because I’m such a nerd, I have a dream journal from 2004. I dream fairly regularly and remember a fair bit, but for the most part they’re uneventful nothing dreams. As such, I only take the time to write down in vivid detail those dreams that knock you on your ass. The ones that make you wish more than anything that you were back in them and, if you’re not careful, threaten to send you into a tailspin of nostalgia for something that never existed and depression for what does.

July and August of this year almost doubled the total number of entries in my journal.

They were fucking phenomenal. Each and every one of them. Even the nightmares! I’d wake up, often in a sheen of sweat from the terror or adrenaline, and know that if I could just will myself back to sleep, I’d probably fall back into some equally crazy scenario. I was exhausted for much of my treatment. I know a lot of it came from the physical aspect of the drugs, but another factor was that I couldn’t stay asleep most nights. I’d wake up feeling as if I hadn’t slept a wink and it wasn’t until two weeks into the treatment that I realized I was waking up so frequently because of all the dreaming. Suddenly, I didn’t care about the exhaustion.

Because I’m such a super nerd, I began meticulously tracking my days. Did the dreams coincide with my treatment? Sudden change in diet? Flower-scented aroma candles I’d boug…had given to me? It didn’t take long to pinpoint the culprit (or hero, in my eyes): my anti-nausea medication. Just to be certain it wasn’t somehow the nausea itself, I even went five days without taking any meds and powered through the discomfort. It was the longest stretch where I didn’t dream during the entire two months.

All of the prescriptions are refillable through November. Any medical professionals or parents might want to turn away now, and kids, don’t abuse drugs. But I’m sorry. Those dreams were something magical.

Fuck it, I’m not sorry. I’ve earned them. Here’s to some crazy dreams tonight.

Well that little streak didn’t last long! I don’t know why in the world I picked last week of all weeks to start that little experiment, but whatever.

Most of my focus lately has been between sleeping and eating. My sudden rash of insomnia has been a strange experience, as I can’t recall ever having trouble sleeping in the past. I’m the character who wakes up 30 minutes into an alien blockbuster wondering where everyone went and why the world is a smoldering ruin. So you can imagine the fun I had last night as I watched a Frontline and Sesame Street double feature at 5am.

It’s the food that’s really getting to me though. My God, my tongue has the permanent texture of sandpapper dipped in cat litter. I never was one to eat much fast food and yet I find that the only things I can handle are ones that are over-salted, sweetened, or both. The irony that I’m looking forward to getting better so that I can stomach more vegetables certainly isn’t missed on me. At least I can still manage to keep down fruit.

I see there’s a three hour telethon about to start on PBS. Might as well get in at the start.

Tomorrow marks the end of one of my self-described Hell Weeks – chemo every day of the week for five hours. And I swear, I’m not complaining. Had I popped out 100 years ago, they’d be leaching me or dosing me up with mercury.

But this shit gets old fast.

Aight, less cancer crap over the next few days. I promise.