Sometimes I would love to blame all my idiocy on chemo. Unfortunately, I can’t. But I will say that chemo has made me much more forgetful. I used to never forget a birthday; now I actually have to put reminders in my Outlook and on my phone and send emails to myself. If I walk away from something, it takes me a lot longer to remember what I was doing. I forget what I’m saying midway through a really good argument. I repeat myself several times before I realize I’ve told the same story to the same audience. My excuses for things while creative, are unfortunately also true. They sound like a “My Dog Ate My Homework” type of thing but I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. For instance, I once got out of the shower and was getting ready for work when I put on a camisole and then my skirt. I slipped on some shoes and was out the door. I kid you not, I was halfway down the block before I realized—I didn’t have underwear on. I ran back to my apartment and was like, “Really, who forgets underwear?” I guess that I was planning on putting on after I put my skirt on, but truth be told, have no real idea what my thought process was on that.

But this morning, well, I don’t think I can blame it on chemo. I had taken my wallet out of my bag to go to the dry cleaners. When I got back home, I forgot to take my wallet out of my everyday bag and put it in my work bag. So, this morning all proud that I’m up early enough to get the early bus and all, I get to the bus stop only to realize my wallet was not with me. I had to walk all the way back home to retrieve said wallet and then in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility brought on by my utter stupidity (and if anyone asks I will stand by my statement that my hip was bothering me) I took a $4 cab ride back to the bus stop. The cab didn’t even leave me off as close as I really needed to be to the stop, so I had to cross 5 lanes of traffic and run to catch the bus anyway, and then I couldn’t get my Egg and Cheese on a bagel this morning because I had already spent that money. I almost didn’t get my coffee either, but seeing as I had already had such a horrible morning and knew I would need the fortification to deal with my coworkers scrounged up enough change to get my caffeine fix. And no, I can’t blame this morning on cancer or chemo or fate, just blondeness, I guess.

But it was hard to be on chemo and work and deal with the forgetfulness. Mostly because I wasn’t entirely sure if it was really me or my colleagues or my boss; sometimes, it was like they were gas-lighting me. “Oh, I definitely sent that to you,” they’d say after a third request for a document. “You did?” I would ask puzzled. “I’m telling you. I sent that on the 3rd of November, I mean, I even wrote it down on this piece of paper. I can fax it to you. The piece of paper with the date I mean. Are you sure you didn’t lose it? Or misplace it?” Considering that my desk was piled with paper and I had the recent tendency to misplace and lose things, I couldn’t say with certainty if I had done that or not. I would mumble an apology and ask for it to be resent. And then my boss would recount conversations that I didn’t remember having. “I told you that I want it in this type of font and size.” Again, I would say “You did?” He would bark at me in the affirmative and I would be left wondering why I wasn’t walking around with a tape recorder so that I could stop embarrassing myself. Sometimes I really did misplace the papers. But just as often, they were never sent. And in a discussion with a friend later on she confided something about my supervisor to me. “He changes his mind all the time and then tells you that you weren’t listening or you didn’t hear him or whatever. He kind of gets a kick out of doing that to people.”

I’m taking a break from writing about cancer to describe the supreme idiocy of some people that populate an office. These are the people that constantly complain that the copier is broken and when they walk away they leave a trail of staples and paper clips to get into the tiny parts of the machine. But besides that, I have to go over to the copier to make ONE copy today. Just one. In doing so, I notice that there is an error. It tells me to open tray one. In tray one, there are two stacks of paper. Grimacing, I take out the right stack. Why? Because under the pieces of paper it says in huge, purple marker: DO NOT PUT PAPER IN THIS TRAY. I just…no. I have no words for that.

The thing about experiencing a major life event is that people will inevitably disappoint you. And at the same time, people will surprise you. For instance, before I knew what was really going on, my friend S and I were hanging out. I spoke with her the night before my biopsy. I called her when I got the news, got her machine and told her to call me back. She didn’t. Three weeks went by, and I called her once or twice more and didn’t receive a return phone call. Finally, on my birthday, I wrote her an email asking if everything was okay with her. The response I received was one I would have never anticipated. It would seem that my cancer was a bit much for her to handle. At the current time, her life (mainly her work) was too overwhelming for her and she didn’t feel that she could be there for me. I was an inconvenience, really. However, when I was better she’d love to get together for coffee or a movie. I kid you not. Someday I might have to reproduce the whole email here. But to her credit at least she was honest about it. At least she told me right at the beginning, “Hey, I know you’re under the impression that we’ve been pretty good friends for a couple of years, but that’s not the reality. And I have to save all my “being there” time for people who I consider important. So don’t count on me. Kay?” I didn’t have any expectations after that. But the people who I relayed the story to would be all indignant and angry and “who does she think she is!” and then they turned around and did something similar, that really hurt. These were people whom I had been there for during their difficult times. People whom I counted on, really and truly, as my friends, all of the sudden weren’t there. They were too busy with their boyfriends/fiances, with work, with taking a test, or anything else in life, to even stop by. Or on a far lower commitment level, to even call. There were some who I called out on this. And when I did, the answer I mostly got was that they just could not fathom that I was sick. They did not want to deal with it. They wanted to believe that everything was fine. When they did see me, I looked okay. When they talked to me, we didn’t even talk about cancer. So, they figured it wasn’t that serious. And then there were others who simply didn’t call because they were sure I didn’t want to hear about their trivial problems when I had such big issues to deal with.

So I wound up in a unique situation. I didn’t want people to treat me like a special case. I was all for boyfriend problems or crazy coworker stories. I wanted to feel as normal as possible. I didn’t want every conversation to be a philosophical debate about life and death. But at the same time, I needed my friends to acknowledge what I was going through. I needed them to realize that it wasn’t a bad cold (which if I did get, would put me in the hospital). I needed them to understand that I was very sick and that I needed them. Again while trying to convince myself that I wasn’t all that sick. Some people came around. Others, I’ve pretty much cut out of my life. I can forgive them for their selfishness but I just can’t care enough to want them as my friend.

Which leads me to the pleasant surprises. Friends that I hadn’t kept all that much in touch with became great parts of my life again. They constantly called or came by with goodies. They would sit and watch a movie with me when I couldn’t leave the couch. They would offer to come to chemo with me. I had a friend from work, who was truly amazing. It’s funny, because a lot of people believe that it’s the grand gestures that matter most. But he would call me at home and give me the office gossip. Or because I couldn’t share food, would stop by the store on the way to work and bring me a personal container of milk and a box of cereal. And just those little things mattered so much. I had other friends who sent weekly cards, which were really cute. My best friend from Boston came down to stay for several days. When I was in the hospital with pneumonia my friend from Pittsburgh stayed with me for the full eight hour time of visiting hours. My friend from San Francisco flew in and brought with her some Lush products (which I promise I will dedicate much more time to later). My friends from London also came in. My brother and his friends were constantly bringing me scarves. My aunt would send care packages almost every other week with home-baked goodies and the entire Bath & Body Works line. My best friend since I was little was at my apt. every weekend. When I first got sick, she came and did my nails. She bought a hat I had been coveting. She cleaned my apt. when I was too weak to do so.

But out of everyone, I have to say it was my mother was the most amazing person. She read every book, came to every appointment, researched websites. She let me get angry, she let me be sad, she came with me to the mall and bought me ridiculous perfume and sat with me at chemo and watched movies. She stayed with me at night when I was so scared that I wouldn’t wake up to see the sun. She made me smoothies. She supported me in every decision I made. She told me when I was being rude. And one day I asked her how she could always be so good through this whole thing and she gave me the greatest compliment ever. She said to me, “I get my strength from you. You are fighting this and you are usually so positive and believe me I wouldn’t be handling this as well if it wasn’t for you.” And I say this and really mean this. By having such wonderful parents (although yes, my dad did cry a lot) I was very lucky in an unlucky situation.

After three rounds of chemo, where my arms and hands were sore from all the needle sticks, my doctor persuaded me to have a port put in. She, as well as the other nurses, assured me of the following: that it would be under the skin; I wouldn’t even notice it was there; and that it would make chemo a lot easier. The first and last thing was true; the middle one—one big lie. Yes, it was under the skin, unlike the ones that have tubes coming out of your chest. And yes, it made chemo a lot easier because they didn’t have to access any veins and I could walk around while attached to a huge pole with bags of chemicals. But the “I wouldn’t even notice it” part. Come on, like I’m not going to notice that there’s this huge metal thing in my chest. Under two big scars. Right. For the longest time I was worried I was going to set off metal detectors. I had no idea how I would explain that one: “Um, all my jewelry, keys and belts are in the tray and I’ve now taken off my shoes and hat and everything but see, the reason I’m setting this thing off is that I have this round disc thing in my chest, hooked up to a major vein and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s doing this. Oh, you want me to show you? Take off my shirt? In the middle of the airport? Am I being Punk’d? Cause I really do not like Ashton Kutcher at all. Stupid trucker hat trend. Oh I’m sorry did I just go off on a tangent?” Happily, it does not set off the airport detectors. Now, come to think of it, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Anyway, the surgery was short. I hate surgery. I hate all those people in one room who are inevitably going to see you naked on a metal table and they’re trying to talk to you and make you feel more comfortable. And I’m like, no you’re all going to see my breasts pretty soon and not in a sexy way, so stop talking to me. And then to make matters worse, my surgeon tells my mother in the waiting room, “Well your daughter has a small frame, but a really big chest, so it was a little difficult. And I know that she’d probably want to wear a bathing suit, so I put it as far down as I could, but man, it was well,…” To my mother. In the waiting room. With other people around. Who were listening. She relayed this entire conversation to me later when I was on pain killers so that news went down much easier. Otherwise, I think that I would’ve freaked out a bit. I imagined the conversation that they were having in the operating room, “wow look at those! What the hell are we going to do?” And I’m sure it’s much worse than whatever I was imagining and should be happy that he didn’t say “Well, we gave her a reduction so now she can both have the port and wear those shirts that only B cups and lower can wear without looking like hookers. I’m sure she’ll be happier. Plus, it’ll be easier to find a bra!” God. This wouldn’t be the first (or last) time that cancer took a shot at my dignity. I remember when I asked my doctor the question that I’m sure lots of young people at least think, even if they’re too embarrassed to ask. “When will I be able to date, or you know, kiss someone again.” Her answer? “But you don’t have a boyfriend.” I said, “No, no one at this time.” “So why are you caring about kissing someone?” I was thinking, well for the future or in case some ex-boyfriend who I don’t despise takes some pity on me and wants to make out. Seriously, it was just a question. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t headed for some asexual existence. She continued, “As long as these people aren’t sick, you can kiss whoever you want. But just don’t go having sex with random people that you pick up of the street.” Yeah, because that’s always been my MO. Especially now that I look and feel ultra-sexy. The hell? She continued to lecture me on safe sex and I was suddenly transported back to high school, when one of the nuns cornered me in the hallway. We had a sex-ed quiz and I had done the big Taboo of answering the question, “What are the forms of birth control” with actual answers of condoms, the pill, diaphragms, etc. Apparently, she said to me, I hadn’t done my homework and I was ignorant. The answer, according to the Catholic Church, is Abstinence. That is the only form of birth control. What was I thinking? She saw me at the play rehearsals laughing and joking with boys. I was too boisterous for my own good. I swear these were the words she used. Because I knew that there were other forms of birth control. But my experiences with Catholic High School are a whole other thing. Anyway, I let my doctor finish her speech, and laughingly relayed the story to the nurse later on. She said to me very seriously, “Well, we all have needs.” Not wanting this discussion to go any further, I smiled and said, “Oh, I really need some water. Thanks.”

I know i write alot. I just have so much that I'm trying to catch up that I'm putting too much down at once. Chemo lasted three months. Every other week. I worked as much as I could. I cut off my hair as short as I could stand it and then would pull it out and watch it clump in my hands and then fall to the floor. One time, I was sitting on the porch and was absent-mindedly (sic?) pulling my hair out. When I looked at the grass, the mass I had created looked like a tumbleweed. It was so gross. Whatever hair was left was really blonde and I started to look like a little old man with a combover. I became an expert at scarves and hats. We bought a crazy expensive wig. I never wore it once. Mostly because the fall was so wet and windy. The last thing I needed was to be chasing my hair down the block. Cause that'd be cute. And not at all embarrassing. I thought that the hair thing would be the worst. I had really long hair, and I loved my hair. I never had to fight with it and was one of those people who hardly ever had a bad hair day. And then it was gone. But it wasn't as bad as I thought. I think because I had hyped it up so much in my mind. And it never all fully fell out. I was left with this white blonde baby wisps that would stick out from my scarves or hats, giving the appearance of hair. I hated seeing myself in the mirror bald, but I could deal with it.