I've been sharing stories about my cancer treatment on WGAL. There will be four stories total. This is the link for story #2 which aired last week.
Kristin is a bonafide star!!! She was so nervous but she shined! She made the story: a little expertise, a little sass and a good lesson.
It's also important to note that broadcast journalists don't have to spell a lot of things correctly. Mainly just the people's names. And I nearly fucked that up. My dear Kristin is spelled KRISTIN - not Kristen, as I've been doing since 2008 (you think she would have spoken up sooner! It's all her fault!) And just about 45 minutes before the story aired, I finally got her last name correct: AHRENS. The woman is literally bringing me back to life - you think I could get her name right! (My bad, girl!)
I hope you enjoy!
Meredith's WGAL Story Part 2
Thursday, June 14, 2012
No Go for Chemo
Wednesdays are big days. I've even started to look forward to them. So when I walk into the office and Beverly, at the front desk, shakes her head, I'm actually disappointed.
Such was the case yesterday. Good numbers and bad numbers all rolled into one.
The Good: the hCG is down to 1.5!! Can I get a "Hell Yeah!" After staying steady at 2.0, which counts as remission, breaking the 2 mark was exciting.
The Bad: Platelets were down. Blah blah blah. Where have I heard that before? Like 36 times in the last five months. They are supposed to be 100 to receive chemo. I've talked Kristin into it even in the 70's. But a 24 is never going to fly.
The Ugly: the look on my face when Kristin sends me packing. All my friends were there on Wednesday; Kerri, the only other patient who doesn't yet qualify for AARP. Plus my friend Enid and her husband. She's nearly ending treatment. How much longer will I have to chat with them and hear about San Diego and how their grandsons are doing? So, as Kristin says, I "worked the room," said my quick hellos and then goodbyes.
I'm so lucky and so thrilled the cancer is dying - or practically dead - at this point. But I am disappointed for the home stretch of treatment to be pushed back another week. My sister Taylor will come to visit in two weeks with my wonderful niece Hailey and nephew William. I was hoping to carve out a vacation week of no chemo during their visit. But God picked this week as a break instead, so we'll play with fun children then get the poison. Oh well. It will all work out. It always does.
Such was the case yesterday. Good numbers and bad numbers all rolled into one.
The Good: the hCG is down to 1.5!! Can I get a "Hell Yeah!" After staying steady at 2.0, which counts as remission, breaking the 2 mark was exciting.
The Bad: Platelets were down. Blah blah blah. Where have I heard that before? Like 36 times in the last five months. They are supposed to be 100 to receive chemo. I've talked Kristin into it even in the 70's. But a 24 is never going to fly.
The Ugly: the look on my face when Kristin sends me packing. All my friends were there on Wednesday; Kerri, the only other patient who doesn't yet qualify for AARP. Plus my friend Enid and her husband. She's nearly ending treatment. How much longer will I have to chat with them and hear about San Diego and how their grandsons are doing? So, as Kristin says, I "worked the room," said my quick hellos and then goodbyes.
I'm so lucky and so thrilled the cancer is dying - or practically dead - at this point. But I am disappointed for the home stretch of treatment to be pushed back another week. My sister Taylor will come to visit in two weeks with my wonderful niece Hailey and nephew William. I was hoping to carve out a vacation week of no chemo during their visit. But God picked this week as a break instead, so we'll play with fun children then get the poison. Oh well. It will all work out. It always does.
But let's face it, life can't be that bad when you are wearing a shirt like this:
 |
"Bald is the New Blonde" So true, so true. The T-shirt, the smile and a lot of laughs courtsey of Adam and Kristy Aurand! Thanks guys! |
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Can't a Girl Just Sit While She's Getting Chemo for 8 Hours!
Ok, People. It's on. The Race to the End. The Light at the End of the Tunnel. The Point of No Return. (Well, that last one doesn't really apply, but you get the drift.) Let me be clear: the chemo continues, but the numbers are so damn good, you can't help but be excited. I am.
HCG holding steady at 2.0! Didn't tick down to register a <2 on the lab scale. But according to two high powered oncologists 2.0 is good enough for government work. I'm not about to ask for more chemo. All the other labs: red, white and blue - er, I mean, platelets, were fine. We are on a roll. And if my producer Ronda has anything to do with it, we're on a Keiser Roll. (Her mom didn't put an H in her first name, which has plagued her all her life. But her husband's family doesn't quite spell Keiser right to be a roll. At this point though, we'll let that slide.)
I'm having interesting reactions to the upcoming chemo treatments. I think, thus far, I've maintained my upbeat attitude. Maybe it's the fact that we're nearly done that makes me complain about them more now. This week was the one long treatment. The morning starts at 7:45am when Marcia and I do our Wednesday morning routine. Bloodwork, Bagels then Chemo. Kristen, the chemo nurse, hangs a whole lot of bags on that pole on the long days. The only one I really care about is the Benadryl. It's hysterical how totally loopy I get. If smoking pot is anything like that, I can understand why people get high. It doesn't give me the munchies but I definitely go a little crazy and then promptly fall asleep. This day just keeps going though, so by the time Deb, my special guest yesterday, drops me off at home, we're pushing 4 o'clock and I need another nap.
The day before treatments, I'm now having these terrible waves of nausea. I can feel my throat closing off the way it does before you are going to yack. This is out of the blue on Tuesdays. Just the thought of the drugs coming the next day gives me a physical reaction. My friend Adam smartly remarked, you're not eating the chemo, why are you nauseous. Good point, Adam, good point. I don't know, but it's annoying. Goes to show you it's all psycho-sematic (is that how you spell it?) Mind over matter, except in this case my mind is taking over before I have a reason to have something the matter!
I'm almost relieved to get hooked up Wednesday morning. Every hour I'm there is another hour down. But yesterday, I was marking the quarter hours ... with a trip to the bathroom. It. Was. So. Annoying. There is this one drug they give me on the long infusion days, Cisplatin. It's so bad for you that when you body filters it and parts of the drug sit in your bladder, it burns the lining of your bladder. Eats right through it. So doctors couple this drug with a diuretic (spelling again?) to make you go to the bathroom regularly. The more you pee the less time the drug sits in your bladder making unnecessary holes. Not a bad concept unless you have to get up every 30 seconds.
Usually I wait until I'm about to float to the bathroom. Most days I get up every half hour. Yesterday, no rest for the weary. All I wanted to do was enjoy my Bendryl induced sleep and here I am ready to wet myself. Isnt' Cancer glamorous? No kidding, every 15 minutes. I thought I should just barricade myself in the John, bring my book in with me(the second in the 50 Shades of Grey series - total smut) and sit there for the whole infusion. Two problems, I'd be hogging up the rest room and the Barcalounger chair is so much more comfortable than the porcelain throne.
Plus, and this is the real kicker, there's a minor seam leading into the bathroom. You know, like a rubber strip between the two parts of the floor. No big deal if your walking to the bathroom, BIG fucking deal if you're wheeling your friendly chemo pole in there every 15 minutes. It's like a god damn speed bump. You know the kind of speed bumps they put in residential neighborhoods that people use as cut throughs? Like that kind of unnecessary, annoying speed bump. I practically have to carry the pole over it. Really? I've been sick since February, have exactly no muscle tone left (haven't used the Shake Weight all year, but normally Mary Beth Filling and I are big fans!) and here I am, hauling large equipment in the bathroom. If Kristen doesn't name the Chemo Lounge the Meredith Cooke Memorial Gossip Lounge, the least I'm going to have her do is put a ramp over the speed bump into the bathroom. Geez!
HCG holding steady at 2.0! Didn't tick down to register a <2 on the lab scale. But according to two high powered oncologists 2.0 is good enough for government work. I'm not about to ask for more chemo. All the other labs: red, white and blue - er, I mean, platelets, were fine. We are on a roll. And if my producer Ronda has anything to do with it, we're on a Keiser Roll. (Her mom didn't put an H in her first name, which has plagued her all her life. But her husband's family doesn't quite spell Keiser right to be a roll. At this point though, we'll let that slide.)
I'm having interesting reactions to the upcoming chemo treatments. I think, thus far, I've maintained my upbeat attitude. Maybe it's the fact that we're nearly done that makes me complain about them more now. This week was the one long treatment. The morning starts at 7:45am when Marcia and I do our Wednesday morning routine. Bloodwork, Bagels then Chemo. Kristen, the chemo nurse, hangs a whole lot of bags on that pole on the long days. The only one I really care about is the Benadryl. It's hysterical how totally loopy I get. If smoking pot is anything like that, I can understand why people get high. It doesn't give me the munchies but I definitely go a little crazy and then promptly fall asleep. This day just keeps going though, so by the time Deb, my special guest yesterday, drops me off at home, we're pushing 4 o'clock and I need another nap.
The day before treatments, I'm now having these terrible waves of nausea. I can feel my throat closing off the way it does before you are going to yack. This is out of the blue on Tuesdays. Just the thought of the drugs coming the next day gives me a physical reaction. My friend Adam smartly remarked, you're not eating the chemo, why are you nauseous. Good point, Adam, good point. I don't know, but it's annoying. Goes to show you it's all psycho-sematic (is that how you spell it?) Mind over matter, except in this case my mind is taking over before I have a reason to have something the matter!
I'm almost relieved to get hooked up Wednesday morning. Every hour I'm there is another hour down. But yesterday, I was marking the quarter hours ... with a trip to the bathroom. It. Was. So. Annoying. There is this one drug they give me on the long infusion days, Cisplatin. It's so bad for you that when you body filters it and parts of the drug sit in your bladder, it burns the lining of your bladder. Eats right through it. So doctors couple this drug with a diuretic (spelling again?) to make you go to the bathroom regularly. The more you pee the less time the drug sits in your bladder making unnecessary holes. Not a bad concept unless you have to get up every 30 seconds.
Usually I wait until I'm about to float to the bathroom. Most days I get up every half hour. Yesterday, no rest for the weary. All I wanted to do was enjoy my Bendryl induced sleep and here I am ready to wet myself. Isnt' Cancer glamorous? No kidding, every 15 minutes. I thought I should just barricade myself in the John, bring my book in with me(the second in the 50 Shades of Grey series - total smut) and sit there for the whole infusion. Two problems, I'd be hogging up the rest room and the Barcalounger chair is so much more comfortable than the porcelain throne.
Plus, and this is the real kicker, there's a minor seam leading into the bathroom. You know, like a rubber strip between the two parts of the floor. No big deal if your walking to the bathroom, BIG fucking deal if you're wheeling your friendly chemo pole in there every 15 minutes. It's like a god damn speed bump. You know the kind of speed bumps they put in residential neighborhoods that people use as cut throughs? Like that kind of unnecessary, annoying speed bump. I practically have to carry the pole over it. Really? I've been sick since February, have exactly no muscle tone left (haven't used the Shake Weight all year, but normally Mary Beth Filling and I are big fans!) and here I am, hauling large equipment in the bathroom. If Kristen doesn't name the Chemo Lounge the Meredith Cooke Memorial Gossip Lounge, the least I'm going to have her do is put a ramp over the speed bump into the bathroom. Geez!
Thursday, May 31, 2012
My "Coming Out" Party!
While the treatments have been going on for a while, so have my preparations for a story about my illness. WGAL is a wonderful forum for sharing stories and I was privileged enough to share mine on the air last night. It wasn't an easy decision to share what is going on. I was a little nervous, Chris was a lot nervous, but now, a day after it aired I'm feeling it was a good choice. I feel proud of what my News Director and my photographer, friend and funny man Andy helped me put together.
I received about 45 e-mails since yesterday and many of them refer to me "coming out" with my story. I just think that sounds funny. The only time I say coming out is when someone is gay. So to be clear, my story had nothing to do with me announcing I'm suddenly a lesbian. Nope, strictly a heterosexual still. The other time people refer to "coming out" is for a debutant party, big social affairs where 16 years olds are formally introduced into society. The craziest thing is this tradition still happens in Lancaster. My wonderful sister-in-law Hilary had a fabulous Deb party. But, alas, there's no country club fete full of surf and turf and escorts for me. Instead my "coming out" was simply me and my bald head in a bright yellow zip up that made me look like I just stepped out of Saturday Night Fever. At least it was a bright color so I didn't look too depressing telling my cancer sob story.
So here's the link to the story on WGAL. I hope our web guys are excited I'm linking to it so we get a lot of hits on the web page. These are the things that make the "Web Boys" happy.
Meredith's WGAL Story
This will be the first in a series of four stories. This one is "all about Meredith." Typical. It's the MoJo Show. While this one focuses on why I've been missing, my diagnosis and prognosis, the other stories are about the friends I've made along the way. The Chemo Lounge which is really a party room. My friend Agnes, who is like the Ambassador of Hope at the office and then the final story is about the Wig Lady, a breast cancer survivor who now sells wigs to women suffering hair loss. They are all such amazing women and have meant so much to me. It's time to tell their stories too!
So I knew I would post this today and all my family and friends who don't live in the WGAL coverage area would be able to see it. Well, I'm like 12 hours too late because my sister Ashley is a WGAL stalker. She googles WGAL and finds stories of mine that are posted online. She got a hold of this one before I even told her it was on and she's forwarded it to everyone. I talked to Grandma today and she said she loved the story. Gram is great at e-mail but finding that story on her own is pushing her technological limits. When she said Ash sent it, it all made sense. Not only does Ash stalk me online, but she stalks her own West Palm Beach TV station personalities. She has a serious crush on the weather guy and knows he whole life story. She's contemplated going to events that he was hosting just so she can see him. A little creepy, Ash. But she's a perfect example of the people in Lancaster who thought my story was good. They said they missed me being in their living room each night and now they're happy they know why and I missing and that I will soon be back. Gotta love devoted viewers.
I hope you like the clip as much as the crazies like Ashley!
I received about 45 e-mails since yesterday and many of them refer to me "coming out" with my story. I just think that sounds funny. The only time I say coming out is when someone is gay. So to be clear, my story had nothing to do with me announcing I'm suddenly a lesbian. Nope, strictly a heterosexual still. The other time people refer to "coming out" is for a debutant party, big social affairs where 16 years olds are formally introduced into society. The craziest thing is this tradition still happens in Lancaster. My wonderful sister-in-law Hilary had a fabulous Deb party. But, alas, there's no country club fete full of surf and turf and escorts for me. Instead my "coming out" was simply me and my bald head in a bright yellow zip up that made me look like I just stepped out of Saturday Night Fever. At least it was a bright color so I didn't look too depressing telling my cancer sob story.
So here's the link to the story on WGAL. I hope our web guys are excited I'm linking to it so we get a lot of hits on the web page. These are the things that make the "Web Boys" happy.
Meredith's WGAL Story
This will be the first in a series of four stories. This one is "all about Meredith." Typical. It's the MoJo Show. While this one focuses on why I've been missing, my diagnosis and prognosis, the other stories are about the friends I've made along the way. The Chemo Lounge which is really a party room. My friend Agnes, who is like the Ambassador of Hope at the office and then the final story is about the Wig Lady, a breast cancer survivor who now sells wigs to women suffering hair loss. They are all such amazing women and have meant so much to me. It's time to tell their stories too!
So I knew I would post this today and all my family and friends who don't live in the WGAL coverage area would be able to see it. Well, I'm like 12 hours too late because my sister Ashley is a WGAL stalker. She googles WGAL and finds stories of mine that are posted online. She got a hold of this one before I even told her it was on and she's forwarded it to everyone. I talked to Grandma today and she said she loved the story. Gram is great at e-mail but finding that story on her own is pushing her technological limits. When she said Ash sent it, it all made sense. Not only does Ash stalk me online, but she stalks her own West Palm Beach TV station personalities. She has a serious crush on the weather guy and knows he whole life story. She's contemplated going to events that he was hosting just so she can see him. A little creepy, Ash. But she's a perfect example of the people in Lancaster who thought my story was good. They said they missed me being in their living room each night and now they're happy they know why and I missing and that I will soon be back. Gotta love devoted viewers.
I hope you like the clip as much as the crazies like Ashley!
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
BINGO!
Today was a big day!
My wonderful mother-in-law Marcia has been my special guest, taxi cab and shoulder to cry on during this roller coaster since the beginning. Today it all seemed worth it. She picks me up early, we head to the lab for blood work, talk with our friends there, go to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and breakfast while we wait for the results, then go to the Oncology office and keep our fingers crossed. It's become our Wednesday routine and the two of us have grown quite fond of it.
Marsh and I can usually tell by Beverly's face if it's good news or bad news. She's the first smiling face you see when you walk into Cancer Care for Women. Well, usually smiling unless she's received a "critical" phone call. That's when the lab doesn't wait to fax or e-mail critically low results. They want the patient and the caregiver to know what's up ASAP. Sometimes we walk in and Beverly shakes her head - that's when we know it's critical.
Today, on this bright, sunny 80 degree day ... nothing but sunshine and smiles from Beverly. I could feel it was going to be a good day. All the blood levels came back first: no problems ... platelets are back up, red and white blood cells are cooperating. That's what happens when you are chemo-free for a week. The only thing we were waiting on was the hCG number.
Kristen starts the chemo. Marcia and I start socializing with all our chemo friends. My newest friend, Kerri, is a 20-something cancer patient so I feel like we've instantly bonded on the "this sucks at any age, but especially at our ages. Losing your hair sucks too. And wouldn't it be more fun to be at the bar on the weekends instead of managing side effects." It's that kind of "I get what you're going through" thing.
Two hours later, the number is in. Drum roll please .... 2.0! The lab doesn't count anything below two - so 2.0 = 0! Woo hoo! It's been a success. Now we keep on doing chemo for three more courses, just to kick it in the ass for good. That's six more weeks of chemo if I can do them all back to back. Either way, remember that light at the end of the tunnel? It's getting really bright.
Thank you God for taking me in your hands. Thank you to every soul who has prayed for me and sent me good vibes. I will survive because of all of you.
What a wonderful day.
My wonderful mother-in-law Marcia has been my special guest, taxi cab and shoulder to cry on during this roller coaster since the beginning. Today it all seemed worth it. She picks me up early, we head to the lab for blood work, talk with our friends there, go to Dunkin' Donuts for coffee and breakfast while we wait for the results, then go to the Oncology office and keep our fingers crossed. It's become our Wednesday routine and the two of us have grown quite fond of it.
Marsh and I can usually tell by Beverly's face if it's good news or bad news. She's the first smiling face you see when you walk into Cancer Care for Women. Well, usually smiling unless she's received a "critical" phone call. That's when the lab doesn't wait to fax or e-mail critically low results. They want the patient and the caregiver to know what's up ASAP. Sometimes we walk in and Beverly shakes her head - that's when we know it's critical.
Today, on this bright, sunny 80 degree day ... nothing but sunshine and smiles from Beverly. I could feel it was going to be a good day. All the blood levels came back first: no problems ... platelets are back up, red and white blood cells are cooperating. That's what happens when you are chemo-free for a week. The only thing we were waiting on was the hCG number.
Kristen starts the chemo. Marcia and I start socializing with all our chemo friends. My newest friend, Kerri, is a 20-something cancer patient so I feel like we've instantly bonded on the "this sucks at any age, but especially at our ages. Losing your hair sucks too. And wouldn't it be more fun to be at the bar on the weekends instead of managing side effects." It's that kind of "I get what you're going through" thing.
Two hours later, the number is in. Drum roll please .... 2.0! The lab doesn't count anything below two - so 2.0 = 0! Woo hoo! It's been a success. Now we keep on doing chemo for three more courses, just to kick it in the ass for good. That's six more weeks of chemo if I can do them all back to back. Either way, remember that light at the end of the tunnel? It's getting really bright.
Thank you God for taking me in your hands. Thank you to every soul who has prayed for me and sent me good vibes. I will survive because of all of you.
What a wonderful day.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
And The Number Is ....
Well, which one? The good one or the bad one? It's always something.
This Wednesday the hCG was the GOOD NUMBER, dropping from 4.0 to 2.2! I am so happy it dropped. This is the part where I get bitchy: I'm so frustrated that it is painfully slow. It's like creeping it's way down to zero. Ugh, I want it over with so badly.
My progress is really so positive - I know that. I just had a bad taste in my mouth because of the BAD NUMBER. The damn platelets again. Why won't they just cooperate? Your platelets need to be 90 to get chemo. I came in at a resounding 26. Thanks for playing, but that's not high enough to receive treatment.
(When I get to the doctor's office each week, I like to work the room. Say hello to everyone, all the women patients and their cute husbands who are doting on them. I talked to this one women Wednesday. Asked how her numbers were. She said, "Oh gosh, not good. My platelets are so low. They are the lowest they have ever been. I'm nervous." I asked what's her number. She replied, "Ninety-two!" I could tell she was exasperated and I didn't want to pop her drama bubble. So I said nothing. But she asked, "What are yours?" I said, "Today they are 26 but last month they were 6." She shut up pretty quickly. See ... it's all about perspective.)
So while I was thrilled with the 2.2 hCG, I was disappointed in no chemo. I feel like every week I miss now is a week I have to tack on in August. A No Chemo Day is like a Snow Day when you are a kid in school, except without the fun of sledding. And then, when it's nice out at the end of the school year, they sock on these extra days. By that point you can't remember the fun of sledding. All you know is you're sweating to death and want to be in the pool. I want to be in the pool, damn it! We don't even have a pool, but I want in it.
The silver lining (and there's always one) is that without chemo I should be a rock star for Memorial Day Weekend! My mouth is so sore all I'm eating is pastina, apple sauce and ice pops. But you can bet I'm going to party it up for the holiday weekend. We're going to the shore. I might try to gum a hamburger and french fries. I can't wait to sit on the beach (under a hat, a muumuu and a tent because the sun is like kryptonite for me right now). But the soothing sounds of the ocean and the warm sea air is enough to cure anything.
Let's kick off the summer in style and with some positive vibes. And maybe, just maybe, we can end the season with a Cancer-Free Barbecue and a cold cosmopolitan! Cheers!
This Wednesday the hCG was the GOOD NUMBER, dropping from 4.0 to 2.2! I am so happy it dropped. This is the part where I get bitchy: I'm so frustrated that it is painfully slow. It's like creeping it's way down to zero. Ugh, I want it over with so badly.
My progress is really so positive - I know that. I just had a bad taste in my mouth because of the BAD NUMBER. The damn platelets again. Why won't they just cooperate? Your platelets need to be 90 to get chemo. I came in at a resounding 26. Thanks for playing, but that's not high enough to receive treatment.
(When I get to the doctor's office each week, I like to work the room. Say hello to everyone, all the women patients and their cute husbands who are doting on them. I talked to this one women Wednesday. Asked how her numbers were. She said, "Oh gosh, not good. My platelets are so low. They are the lowest they have ever been. I'm nervous." I asked what's her number. She replied, "Ninety-two!" I could tell she was exasperated and I didn't want to pop her drama bubble. So I said nothing. But she asked, "What are yours?" I said, "Today they are 26 but last month they were 6." She shut up pretty quickly. See ... it's all about perspective.)
So while I was thrilled with the 2.2 hCG, I was disappointed in no chemo. I feel like every week I miss now is a week I have to tack on in August. A No Chemo Day is like a Snow Day when you are a kid in school, except without the fun of sledding. And then, when it's nice out at the end of the school year, they sock on these extra days. By that point you can't remember the fun of sledding. All you know is you're sweating to death and want to be in the pool. I want to be in the pool, damn it! We don't even have a pool, but I want in it.
The silver lining (and there's always one) is that without chemo I should be a rock star for Memorial Day Weekend! My mouth is so sore all I'm eating is pastina, apple sauce and ice pops. But you can bet I'm going to party it up for the holiday weekend. We're going to the shore. I might try to gum a hamburger and french fries. I can't wait to sit on the beach (under a hat, a muumuu and a tent because the sun is like kryptonite for me right now). But the soothing sounds of the ocean and the warm sea air is enough to cure anything.
Let's kick off the summer in style and with some positive vibes. And maybe, just maybe, we can end the season with a Cancer-Free Barbecue and a cold cosmopolitan! Cheers!
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Can I Wear A Cancer Sign?
This has been one of my biggest lessons during this illness. You have no idea what other people might be going through.
I'm learning everyone has something. Each family knows a sick person, or has lost someone, or struggles with an ongoing issue. Many people have had a life tragedy and just keep on plugging. While the pain of those struggles might be easing over time, some are raw and painful and you can't just wear it on your sleeve.
Though sometimes I'd like to. There have been a few times I wanted a tattoo on my forehead that read something like this:
"I HAVE CANCER BITCH, SO BACK OFF!"
It wouldn't be kind or prudent (and it would be really painful lasering that tattoo off once I'm better) but at least it would get my message across.
I feel it in the supermarket. By the time I've walked up and down the aisles and filled the cart I'm at my physical limit. I'm tired and now the cart is 400 pounds (yes, I need three boxes of Entenmann's nubby donuts) and of course I have the cart with one bum wheel.
Tangent: have you noticed the cart area at the supermarket lately? They have a camera pointed right at you as you come in as if to say "We're watching you. You steal those Entenmann's donuts, we're gonna getcha!), then they have four containers of antibacterial wipes. "For your safety." As if someone has ever actually contracted Hepatitis from pushing the cart. Can we - for five minutes - focus on fixing the shitty wheels on the shopping carts instead of resupplying the sani-wipes all day long? Germ-a-phobes would probably welcome a little staph infection if the carts just worked properly.
Back to the supermarket: I'm so tired by the end. I try to unload my cart as fast as possible. I try not to hold up the line by digging in my wallet for the Giant Preferred Shopper Club Card. I attempt to help bag the shit up. But I'm so tired. I look up at the people behind me and dodge the glares. This is when I want a sign that says, "BEAR WITH ME, I HAVE CANCER."
If nothing else, it would give people pause. I might be able to elicit some of those "Ah, poor girl" sighs from some old ladies. Mostly it would be an explanation for why I'm not in tip top shape, moving at warp speed.
That's when I realize it's not a lesson for everyone else. It's a lesson for me. I'm the bitch whose complaining behind someone in the supermarket line. I have no idea what might be going on with that person when they are not out shopping for nubby donuts. I'm going to take a breath, take a pause, and realize everyone has something. Maybe that someone wishes they had a sign too.
I'm learning everyone has something. Each family knows a sick person, or has lost someone, or struggles with an ongoing issue. Many people have had a life tragedy and just keep on plugging. While the pain of those struggles might be easing over time, some are raw and painful and you can't just wear it on your sleeve.
Though sometimes I'd like to. There have been a few times I wanted a tattoo on my forehead that read something like this:
"I HAVE CANCER BITCH, SO BACK OFF!"
It wouldn't be kind or prudent (and it would be really painful lasering that tattoo off once I'm better) but at least it would get my message across.
I feel it in the supermarket. By the time I've walked up and down the aisles and filled the cart I'm at my physical limit. I'm tired and now the cart is 400 pounds (yes, I need three boxes of Entenmann's nubby donuts) and of course I have the cart with one bum wheel.
Tangent: have you noticed the cart area at the supermarket lately? They have a camera pointed right at you as you come in as if to say "We're watching you. You steal those Entenmann's donuts, we're gonna getcha!), then they have four containers of antibacterial wipes. "For your safety." As if someone has ever actually contracted Hepatitis from pushing the cart. Can we - for five minutes - focus on fixing the shitty wheels on the shopping carts instead of resupplying the sani-wipes all day long? Germ-a-phobes would probably welcome a little staph infection if the carts just worked properly.
Back to the supermarket: I'm so tired by the end. I try to unload my cart as fast as possible. I try not to hold up the line by digging in my wallet for the Giant Preferred Shopper Club Card. I attempt to help bag the shit up. But I'm so tired. I look up at the people behind me and dodge the glares. This is when I want a sign that says, "BEAR WITH ME, I HAVE CANCER."
If nothing else, it would give people pause. I might be able to elicit some of those "Ah, poor girl" sighs from some old ladies. Mostly it would be an explanation for why I'm not in tip top shape, moving at warp speed.
That's when I realize it's not a lesson for everyone else. It's a lesson for me. I'm the bitch whose complaining behind someone in the supermarket line. I have no idea what might be going on with that person when they are not out shopping for nubby donuts. I'm going to take a breath, take a pause, and realize everyone has something. Maybe that someone wishes they had a sign too.
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