like a shaved peach

Something occured to me the other day. Chemo has a benefit. No, I'm not talking about that whole 'curing cancer' thing which people keep banging on about, but I'm talking about a far more impressive side-effect ... the complete lack of ear and nasal hair.

As a man of a certain age, I had discovered that in the last few years, that rogue hairs had been sprouting out of orifices that I would prefer they didn't. Tough, thick hairs. Hairs that make your eyes water a little as you pull them out. Quite satisfying in many ways, but when you notice the complete absence of them, you do appreciate your new peachy status.

Just this morning, I flared my nostrils at the mirror and took a satisfied look down into the smooth cavern walls - as hairless as the front row of a JLS concert.

Slippery.

And my ears - fantastic - no pieces of wire-wool poking out at impossible angles, attracting small woodland creatures to perch upon ...

And my eyebrows, which were often in need of 'Ground Force' type tending to, are thinned out and baby-soft - no more pulling at deeply embedded sprouts on their journey towards the sun.

So, there you have it ... one of the many benefits of Chemotherapy. Don't you just wish you were having it too? It saves a fortune on personal hygiene products ....

And then there's my downstairs area, it's like

climbing out of holes

I've been back in the office since Tuesday. Christ, that first day was hard. I probably shouldn't have gone in. I didn't sleep well the night before (2:00am) as I was well and truly on the pity-pot, racked with self-pity and the 'poor me's'.

The day was a series of realisations of how detached I was from the reality of a working office, how difficult thinking about anything other than how shit I felt had become and how exhausted I could get just walking up stairs or to the shop to get lunch. I know how it feels to be that old, confused man who talks to pigeons in the park.

The week, however, has improved daily and as I write this on Friday at 17:00, I'm pleased to report that I'm 'good enough' to work and enjoy life. Of course, when I say 'enjoy life', I don't want to conjure up some Gillette Mach3 world of eternal happiness here. This is not the best a man can get, but it'll do.

And so it would appear that this is the way it shall be. One week 'off', one week 'on'. The 'off' week shall contain a couple of frustrating days trying to get back to be 'on', but I think I'll reside myself to the fact it takes a whole week to be 'good enough'. Too many quote marks ...

... but not enough bullet points. I like bullet points. I'd like a bullet gun to be honest, but that's another story.

• I've had a haircut. And it's haircut that would ensure cries of 'HAIRCUUUT!' from pointing school children in the playground many years ago. As it stands, my now grown-up peers just stare into their laps after stealing a glance. It's a pretty damn short haircut to be fair, but as my hair was breaking off and leaving itself all around my bathroom, the time had come for it to go. Fuck it.
  
  
• I had a blood test and a quick consultation with my consultant on Wednesday, who told me that I was 'good to go' for my next session. She didn't say 'good to go' actually. She's not American. I just paraphrased it for you. Now I wish I hadn't bothered. Anyway, I'm 'good to go'. You can imagine how happy I was with that news. Does my sarcasm travel via the medium of text blogging? I do hope so. But for the avoidance of doubt, I wasn't happy and I was being sarcastic. I was hoping for another extra week off before being hooked back up to the Drips from Satan's Ballsacks. Fuck it.
  
  
• I mentioned to my consultant that just talking or writing about my chemo treatment - especially the Drips from Satan's Ballsacks - made me actually feel nauseous. I thought as first I was imagining it, but it's repeatable and continues to the point where I'm getting it RIGHT NOW. To stress the point, I just used capitals. Capital letters stress points, as any internet forum visitor will tell you. To my surprise, I was told this was quite common, especially by those that are having ABVD chemo. I used capitals then as those are letters of abbreviations and not to stress a point. I don't know how I would express ABVD if I wanted to do it forcefully. Anyway, I digress. There is a name for this 'nausea from memory' thingy, something like 'recall nausea' or something, but I didn't remember it because it at the time as I was starting to feel sick just talking about it. FUCK IT.
  
  
• I've also discovered this week that there is such a thing as 'chemo brain'. If you don't believe me, go and look it up on Wikipedia. Do I have to do everything around here? I'm quite ill you know! Anyway, In a nutshell, about 30% of people who have chemo report having 'chemo brain'. Maybe the other 70% forgot to report it, as apparently it affects memory and your ability to 'do stuff' as quickly/sharply as you used to be able to do. You cannot multi-task and will get 'things' confused. The good news is, according to the reports I read, is that is goes after 4 years or so. Well, that's a relief, I thought for a moment it was going to drag on for a bit. I'm sure the 4 years will fly by, as I'm leaving my wallet in the fridge and wiping my arse with my toothbrush. Fuck it.
  
  
• I've made a decision. I will have to fill the 'good weekends' with things to do that are fun and involve other human beings. I will have to stop my normal 'go home and see what happens' weekend plan. Because, nine times out of ten, guess what? ... nothing fucking happens ever. No one wants to play with the teetotal, drugfree kid, so I end up watching 8 hours of football straight and pacing around my room like a rabid dog in an airport quarantine. As I now have the luxery of having a whole week to go insane during my sick week, I need to make more of an effort on my 'good weekend' to do things that The Normal People do. I'm pleased to report that I've successfully played The Cancer Card on a few of my friends and I have a whole weekend of things to do. Which is good news, although this rather cheery final bullet point has left me with no way to end my paragraph with a self-depreciating or cynical comment. Hmmmm.
  
  Fuck it.