Monday, November 30, 2015

Zippers for tits!

Ahhhhhh, the holidays. 

This year is a vast improvement from 2014, when I was by turn, nauseated, vomiting, or otherwise ensconced in never-ending violent bouts of Perjeta-fueled diarrhea. By Christmas day, I'm sporting zero tits, 3 surgical drains (with blood and waste filled bags!), and many, many, metal staples where my fine breasts formerly sat. Really, my chest looks like it's got two shittily-sewn zippers upon it. Pain does not really describe the cigar burn sensations under my right arm, or my mental state. Sleep and regular movement are dim memories. 

I'm bald too and kinda green. That fits with Christmas.

Can you blame me then, for sending my hubby off to dinner alone, while I sobbed myself to the floor watching Faith Hill on PBS? I wanted the poor guy to have some kind of holiday. Faith possesses the physicality and vocal talent of an angel, and I love/hate her for this, her ability to reduce me to a fetal, tear-covered twitching ruin. And, her breasts seem perfect. Damn. This. Real. Life.

This year things are different. 

Today I find a surprisingly nice looking, pre-lit artificial tree at a huge discount. My new job is only from Wednesday through Friday. Instead of dreading Monday, I'm enjoying the beautiful weather and decorating the tree to surprise my hubster. We'd talked about getting a real tree, but frankly, I'm into all things easy nowadays, so long as the reward outweighs the perceived sacrifice. He agrees - we enjoyed the fully cooked Thanksgiving meal we purchased from Publix too. I make some other nice small things - deviled eggs, brie with mango chutney, a relish tray. It's all devoured and enjoyed. We walk around the neighborhood and watch the parade. Sleep comes easy and lasts long, with nice dreams and no pain. 

His birthday is tomorrow, and he likes the silly Dump Cake that I find on Allrecipes. It's easy, delicious and just right. 

As its aroma fills the house, I'm reminded of all those times he went with me to appointments, scans, lab draws, chemo-fucking-therapy, doctor visits, prosthesis fittings. Never did he miss one thing. How he cried with me the first time we removed my bandages and saw the devastation where seeming perfection used to be. How he would lead me from the breakdowns to his arms during the horrific initial diagnosis. The unflinching, caring and precise stripping of my surgical drains. Washing me when I could not move my own arms. 

Maybe this freakin' cake just ain't good enough. Good thing I got that Marilyn Monroe 2016 calendar and new tires for his truck.