Chemo Shmemo

I hate chemo.

I had my twelfth chemotherapy treatment today.

I wasn't in the mood. In fact, I was in a no good very bad irrationally angry mood. I was a hater.

I hated being at the cancer center, hated seeing all the sickly people and their wheelchairs, walkers, oxygen tubes in their noses, wearing terrible wigs, looking all shades of green-yellow-pale. I hated the patients who appeared to be healthy too, with thick, real hair as if chemo never touched them. Even one woman with short short hair but a full scalp of it, and a beatific smile. How dare she be flaunting that hair growth in front of me? And the doctors sauntering through in their sharp outfits and lab coats as if cancer could never touch them personally.

Of course this isn't true, but this is how it looked to me in my bad mood moment.

My hatred knew no bounds. I hated the chatty woman at the front desk who put the plastic ID bracelet on me so loose it fell off as soon as I put my arm down. I hated the television going on and on about the killing of Osama Bin Laden, the caption on the screen announcing that he'd been shot through his left eye. Why do I need to know that? I don't want to know that. It was all I could do not to hate my husband for his tender, tentative overtures of support while I sat seething in my waiting room chair.

Most of all I hated that I was allowing yet another needle, yet another series of pills. What I wanted was some brave voice of reason and authority, someone to come in and grab me by the arm and say, This is crazy, you don't belong in this place. Let's get you out of here! And I wanted to believe that fantasy rescuer really knew what was best. I wanted to take that hand and run and believe it was the right thing to do.

It felt like it truly was right to run but I wasn't brave enough to do it. No one was supporting me to do it. Therefore, I hated them all.

Especially myself.

At the same time it felt like I, if I let myself notice anyone's kindness, I would cry and cry and cry and collapse on the floor screaming. I'd get up and throw furniture through windows and hit people, shove them all, even the sick ones. I would blame everyone around me for what is happening to me. Leave me alone! It's not my fault! I hate you all!

Um, just a tad bit inappropriate.

So instead, I tried to diffuse the anger by letting just a little love in, letting myself notice just a little bit that people care and wish they could help, letting a few tears leak out.

And I submitted yet again to the dreaded routine.

And now it's done.

Four more to go.

Tonight. I'm convinced my hair is coming in white, or at least mostly white. J~ doesn't think so.

This is from a few days ago. Looks pretty white to me...

You go girl. No hate for Millie.