I’m not really returning to Kowloon, I just wanted to follow the crappy movie sequel title format for this post. Speaking of Kowloon though, I just remembered that most of my original brain tumor is actually still over there, in a freezer somewhere. I know what you’re thinking: there’s a slab of pink popsicled peacock cancer in some back alley cooler guarded by an elderly Chinese man in a wife beater and a lucky crippled chicken named Xiuen Zo. But that’s not the case. In reality, my frozen brain chance is actually sitting in a futuristic biostorage facility, counting the days on an abacus and wondering what went wrong with our relationship (you gave me a headache). I predict that in the future, it will be used to make iPads.
But anyway, back to the original question– how’s the chemo/radiation going?
Well I’m tired most of the time.
And my hair’s falling out.
And the hair that hasn’t fallen out I’m pulling out while thinking about the big Supreme Court decision tomorrow morning that is very possibly going to rip the health insurance that has truly saved my life right out from under me (more on this, undoubtedly, tomorrow).
Other than that, things are great! (He said with a slight hint of sarcasm.) I seem to have gotten the nausea down to a tolerable level, which is a big relief. At the same time, I’m sortof spaced out and have this light flu / hangover feeling all the time. Which isn’t really all that bad, but I’ve definitely reached the point of really looking forward to this shit being over (two and a half weeks to go, plus a few days on the end to let all this crap seep out of me and create a superfund site at 138 North Wilton Place. At least the pool will probably start glowing). Anyway I can’t wait to just have a day where I feel fucking normal again.
As far as the hair, if anything I find it kind of funny. I don’t know why, the spotty bald look makes me smile. It looks like somebody cut my hair with a hot dildo.
Or maybe it’s because all these years I thought I’d inherited my grandfather’s hair on my dad’s side (which was shining thick and white like the mane of a two headed unicorn) rather than my maternal grandfather’s hair, which you’re supposed to inherit, and which was for the most part nonexistent.
Ok so Sir Ben Kingsley isn’t really my maternal grandfather, but you get the idea. He was a bald guy. (And he died before I got to take a rad picture on the beach with him.)
That Kingsley’s moustache is impressive… I actually have less hair on my head right now than that tiny little bastard has on his face.
Heeeeeyyyy wait a sec, I just thought of something! Now I can blame my crappy patchy Weird Beard on the whole brain cancer thing! That’s why I’m enjoying the spotty haircut, because now my head finally matches.
See, I knew there was a good reason for all of this happening.
(speaking of haircuts, I just posted a new/old post showing my post-op StapleHead, so if you’re feeling up for it, click here)