a rushed, scattered, but comprehensive-ish entry
Missy Elliott makes me happy. Flip it and reverse it, baby.
Anyway, Florida was fantastical. Sprouts, green drinks, warm floaty waters, really nice people. Everyone with the same purpose: getting well or getting better. Like I said, about 40 percent of the guests had cancer either actively or in remission. So we compared notes on Kettering and talked about hair loss, etc. But it was strangely not depressing at all, but inspiring because the act of going there to heal seems to empower people. They/we were on the high crest of hope, I think. It revived me.
Oh and the latest tests–more nuclear smoothies–came out clear. The PET showed zero signs of cancer activity. Went to the doctor yesterday and they say I’m all good except my white blood cells are a little depleted. Actually quite depleted, so I’m to stay on two kinds of antibiotics for two more months. Wah. But it’s better than pneumonia, I suppose.
And now I’ve been back at work a week. It’s okay. I’ve just been writing in my corner. Today I’m a little drained–Friday, like everyone else.
Sunday is my birthday. 32. And like I told someone today, I will no longer bitch about getting old. I’m psyched to be having a birthday. Really psyched. We shall see, but the road ahead looks lined with wheatgrass. And my hair is coming back in a small, sweet, but distinct fuzz. Though my eyelashes all jumped face this week. Apparently their growth cycle is synchronous. Meaning they all grow and die at once and the last round of chemo probably hit them just as they were naturally changing the guard.
And I’m writing about moss. Moss is cool. Do you like moss?
