My new theory from watching television and movies is that everyone who is going to die will die tragically. This, in fact just means cancer. I have had to give up on television and movies for this reason. I start watching something and I really get into it.
Then, it usually goes two ways. The first way starts in with the male character that is strong, charming, handsome, and rebellious. The female character is soft, and quiet, but a rare unnoticed beauty. She is a good girl, and he has a dark past. She changes him, they fall in love. Then, right as we are so happy for them, Bam!! She has a dark secret to confess, she is dying. And we wonder of what???? Because, it would suck to die of something normal, or something no one has ever heard of. Is she psychic and knows she will be murdered tomorrow night? Is it old age?? Is she really a 76 year old trapped in the body of a 19 year old?? Is it Systemic Mastocytosis? Nobody knows what the hell this is so it can’t possibly be that! Is it Maple syrup Urine disease? No! Of course not! That sounds like a disease that is kind of gross, weird, and possibly ugly. We can’t give our beautiful lead an ugly disease.
We give her cancer. Why do we give her cancer? Everyone knows what cancer is. A lot of people have a personal connection to cancer, which means we can drag sympathy out of our viewers. She can look pretty while dying of cancer. We put her in a hospital in a short, tight, mini gown. We don’t let her fake bake for a couple days, and we only spend two hours doing her make-up. Plus, we find an actress who does a sexy sad face, big pouty lips and everything. This also gives us the ability to get shots of our male lead going around pouting and brooding to everyone he knows yelling, “The love of my life has cancer”, and everyone can give him the oh no! face. Cancer is something love can’t conquer, but can make a lot worse to have. There is also a count down, because we can’t have her die too suddenly, we need to draw out the teenage angst.
Scenario two can play into some of the aforementioned things as well. We start with a quiet boy who is handsomely and charmingly dorky and sticks to himself. In comes the pretty, popular, blonde, girl who falls for this hot geek of a sad man candy and tries to pursue him. She falls hard for him; he falls for her, but then suddenly becomes a drift, spacey, and backs off from it all. She is confused, and finally after moody faces and days of wonder, she confronts him. He breaks down about a girl that he loved and broke his heart.
She asks…. “Did she cheat on you? Go lesbian? What??”
He says, “No, no, no, nothing serious like that….. She died.”
“Oh my! I am so sorry I had no idea.”
He says, “She found a lump one day on her neck and…….. Yes, yes it was cancer.”
The audience gasps, looks at each other in disbelief. He finally breaks down and tears up, she consoles him. He falls into her, letting her console him, pushing his face way to close to her cleavage that it becomes a little disconcerting. Together they help each other with the sadness, bond, and kind of forget the dead girlfriend. The dead cancer girlfriend has brought them closer together. Yay for her, she’s dead and still helping him get some. Now, that’s a devoted girlfriend. He can use dead girlfriend for at least three years after, dead girlfriend of cancer means he can use it at least five years.
Television and movies have been ruined for me. I have broken the code. Once I see two characters who make a breakthrough and fall in love and become happy, I can already call it that somebody has or will die of cancer. Because AIDS just doesn’t have the same effect.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Red Penguin Perpetrator
Pajama pants have become their own character in this blog. They hold a very distinct personality and role in the story of cancer. (It's a horrible movie, somebody always dies in the end. Read the book instead.)
One's first time in the hospital is a learning time. You might show up in jeans or work pants expecting them to be comfortable enough while wanting to look pleasant for the doctor. That quickly goes out the window. A couple months in, you turn to the red penguin pajama pants. Red penguin pajama pants are a rare very fine breed of pant motif. Now, this is just a symbolic representation of some of the crazy pajamas I have seen. Red with penguins, blue with polar bears, green with fairies. Basically, we all have our whimsical representations of what we see when high. Yes, cancer patients sometimes end up in a fantastical world called ‘Land of the Morphine’. This is where we dance with our penguins, fly with our fairies, and run with our polar bears. Our pajamas pants merely represent our personality when high. I see penguins, I don’t know why, but I like it. They seem like very happy creatures, just a-slipping and a-sliding every damn where they please.
By a month into your chemo, you will lose any fantasy like thought of maintaining any kind of respectful, non-embarrassing, appearance for your doctor. It will more than likely come to the new found conclusion that one should become friends with a theory I would like to call….. Screw it.
It will go like this: The doctor will walk in. If you are feeling particularly friendly you will remember to make sure all your clothes are on or the sheet is at least pulled up. No guarantees. Usually you will greet them by their first name, or any of the following worthy substitutions: dude, man, doc, homeboy.... Or if you are me you will tell them that to do to you what they want to do is the kind of thing that they usually would need to buy you dinner for first. They will laugh, smile, sneer, or not make any kind of face what so ever and go right past the dirty comment. You are past the stage of nodding or even fully listening to what they say. It does not matter anyways, they are just repetitive and will do with you what they damn well please anyways…. (That’s what she said!)
On a good day, they will send you home. If feeling particularly friendly, they will say you can go home now, get out of this horrible place, and put on real pants. However, little do they know that going home does not signify the transference of pajama pants to real pants. Most likely pajama pants have become the real pants. This leads my dad to the point that he is going to have to be careful walking with me into the grocery story. He was pretty sure at one point grocery security would tackle me thinking I was either crazy and would rob them in my pajama pants, or I had enough room in my big stretchy pajama pants to stuff a bunch of cans and frozen delicacies to take home.
I am pretty sure it would go like this when watching the evening news that night:
“Hi, my name is Sandra Newsworthy, and I am here with your 8 o’ clock round up of the day’s events. A local woman gave birthday to nine puppies today; I hear the husband was a mutt. The local hair salon had a grand reopening after doing construction for three months and really weaved up the place; the whole event was a big to do! (Get it… to do… like hair-do…. She would say very proud of her pun.) And just this morning, Publix was in shock after a women made away with two frozen turkeys, three cans of green beans, and one yam. The police have put together a profile for the women they are looking for: Bald, no eyebrows, pale, a little bruised up, crazy eyes, and a big pair of red penguin pajama pants. They are calling her The Red Penguin Perpetrator. Be aware.
One's first time in the hospital is a learning time. You might show up in jeans or work pants expecting them to be comfortable enough while wanting to look pleasant for the doctor. That quickly goes out the window. A couple months in, you turn to the red penguin pajama pants. Red penguin pajama pants are a rare very fine breed of pant motif. Now, this is just a symbolic representation of some of the crazy pajamas I have seen. Red with penguins, blue with polar bears, green with fairies. Basically, we all have our whimsical representations of what we see when high. Yes, cancer patients sometimes end up in a fantastical world called ‘Land of the Morphine’. This is where we dance with our penguins, fly with our fairies, and run with our polar bears. Our pajamas pants merely represent our personality when high. I see penguins, I don’t know why, but I like it. They seem like very happy creatures, just a-slipping and a-sliding every damn where they please.
By a month into your chemo, you will lose any fantasy like thought of maintaining any kind of respectful, non-embarrassing, appearance for your doctor. It will more than likely come to the new found conclusion that one should become friends with a theory I would like to call….. Screw it.
It will go like this: The doctor will walk in. If you are feeling particularly friendly you will remember to make sure all your clothes are on or the sheet is at least pulled up. No guarantees. Usually you will greet them by their first name, or any of the following worthy substitutions: dude, man, doc, homeboy.... Or if you are me you will tell them that to do to you what they want to do is the kind of thing that they usually would need to buy you dinner for first. They will laugh, smile, sneer, or not make any kind of face what so ever and go right past the dirty comment. You are past the stage of nodding or even fully listening to what they say. It does not matter anyways, they are just repetitive and will do with you what they damn well please anyways…. (That’s what she said!)
On a good day, they will send you home. If feeling particularly friendly, they will say you can go home now, get out of this horrible place, and put on real pants. However, little do they know that going home does not signify the transference of pajama pants to real pants. Most likely pajama pants have become the real pants. This leads my dad to the point that he is going to have to be careful walking with me into the grocery story. He was pretty sure at one point grocery security would tackle me thinking I was either crazy and would rob them in my pajama pants, or I had enough room in my big stretchy pajama pants to stuff a bunch of cans and frozen delicacies to take home.
I am pretty sure it would go like this when watching the evening news that night:
“Hi, my name is Sandra Newsworthy, and I am here with your 8 o’ clock round up of the day’s events. A local woman gave birthday to nine puppies today; I hear the husband was a mutt. The local hair salon had a grand reopening after doing construction for three months and really weaved up the place; the whole event was a big to do! (Get it… to do… like hair-do…. She would say very proud of her pun.) And just this morning, Publix was in shock after a women made away with two frozen turkeys, three cans of green beans, and one yam. The police have put together a profile for the women they are looking for: Bald, no eyebrows, pale, a little bruised up, crazy eyes, and a big pair of red penguin pajama pants. They are calling her The Red Penguin Perpetrator. Be aware.
How do you keep a cancer patient from escaping?
So I recently decided to start blogging about my life. I figure this is what I know, and understand hopefully most of the time. Basically, my life revolves around cancer. I know your jealous, but contain yourself.
I have been through chemo and radiation for what feels like half my life. But part of that is because I didn't really start living or enjoying life until I got Cancer. Yes, I have cancer. Yay for me, release the hounds, do a little dance.
I am in the upkeep- kiss my ass phase (Technical term).
The idea to blog about this came last Thursday. I sat with my friend in All children's as he faced his first round of chemo. I was the veteran in all of this, which was slightly off putting. My friend is barely nineteen, and autistic at that. He had his choice between Moffitt and All Childrens, and while both are perfected in the art of killing the cancers, All Childrens is a better pick for the younger crowd. I realized that not dying has become my hobby, pastime, and art form of choice. I am a veteran, and yet still fighting the war.
So there I sat Thursday night, in the Cancer ward. I had difficulty making it there for the sure fact that the only reason I thought they could get me back there was kicking and screaming. Now, I was going by my own free will. I even made sure to dress up very nicely so that they didn't assume I was one of the patients. I always worry if I go back as a visitor in my awesomely proud and loud pajama pants attire, they would assume I’m a patient, spot me escaping, and then drag me back. It would go like this:
Them: “Where are you going little girl with the crazy awesome pajamas?”
Me: “I’m just a visitor. I’m visiting. I’m done visiting now. I’m leaving…..cause I can. Because I’m a visitor.”
Them: “You are wearing pajama pants though, and I see a meta port scar.” (Mostly all chemo patients have a meta port scar on their chest.)
Me: “No! It’s old! I swear!! It’s from umm... a boob job. Yes, that’s it! I had the puppies done!”
Them: “No you don't get back here!”
Me: “Ahhhhhh!”
That is the tame version.
I walked into the hospital room. It was the same as every other room: Hospital bed, green recliner, try to help you not die machines, bathroom, dry erase board, and somewhat hot nurse. This time however I was the one sitting in the recliner watching the one in the hospital bed and still it felt like home.
So how do you keep a cancer patient from escaping?
You hide the good drugs.
I have been through chemo and radiation for what feels like half my life. But part of that is because I didn't really start living or enjoying life until I got Cancer. Yes, I have cancer. Yay for me, release the hounds, do a little dance.
I am in the upkeep- kiss my ass phase (Technical term).
The idea to blog about this came last Thursday. I sat with my friend in All children's as he faced his first round of chemo. I was the veteran in all of this, which was slightly off putting. My friend is barely nineteen, and autistic at that. He had his choice between Moffitt and All Childrens, and while both are perfected in the art of killing the cancers, All Childrens is a better pick for the younger crowd. I realized that not dying has become my hobby, pastime, and art form of choice. I am a veteran, and yet still fighting the war.
So there I sat Thursday night, in the Cancer ward. I had difficulty making it there for the sure fact that the only reason I thought they could get me back there was kicking and screaming. Now, I was going by my own free will. I even made sure to dress up very nicely so that they didn't assume I was one of the patients. I always worry if I go back as a visitor in my awesomely proud and loud pajama pants attire, they would assume I’m a patient, spot me escaping, and then drag me back. It would go like this:
Them: “Where are you going little girl with the crazy awesome pajamas?”
Me: “I’m just a visitor. I’m visiting. I’m done visiting now. I’m leaving…..cause I can. Because I’m a visitor.”
Them: “You are wearing pajama pants though, and I see a meta port scar.” (Mostly all chemo patients have a meta port scar on their chest.)
Me: “No! It’s old! I swear!! It’s from umm... a boob job. Yes, that’s it! I had the puppies done!”
Them: “No you don't get back here!”
Me: “Ahhhhhh!”
That is the tame version.
I walked into the hospital room. It was the same as every other room: Hospital bed, green recliner, try to help you not die machines, bathroom, dry erase board, and somewhat hot nurse. This time however I was the one sitting in the recliner watching the one in the hospital bed and still it felt like home.
So how do you keep a cancer patient from escaping?
You hide the good drugs.
Ahhhh!!!! Cancer!!!
Cancer. The first words that come to mind when hearing the term cancer are chemo, doctor, hospital, bald, fear, and my personal favorite death. But what about those cancer patients who actually live. This blog focuses on the behind the scenes. The good stuff the cancer patients don't share. The brighter side of the cancer spectrum, and by that I don't mean the radiation patients who glow in the dark. This is my thoughts and stories that accompany the normal upkeep of a cancer patient/survivor/caregiver's life. Cancer is it's own world, and I intend to rule.
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