There isn't much to laugh about when it comes to breast cancer, but I made the decision when I was diagnosed six months ago to make it my business to try and distract myself from all the treatment and doctors and side effects. To wit, I offer up a poem:
Are You My Chemo?
I do not like this chemo crap.
I do not want to wear a cap.
I do not want an IV drip.
No Carboplatin, not one sip.
I do not like my face with rashes.
I liked my lids when they had lashes.
I did not want to lose my hair.
And yes, I've lost it everywhere.
Now, nothing seems to be much fun
When to the bathroom I must run.
I cannot taste what's on my plate.
You'd think that I could lose some weight.
But these steroids, it must be noted
Just cause me to feel big and bloated.
I realize that "this, too, shall pass"
I'll bet I get to keep my a**.
And I'm sure it's a foregone conclusion:
I do not want my next infusion.
But I must go, I can't postpone.
So with this poem, I'll bitch and moan.
And friends, indulge me with this blog,
And excuse my writing chemo-fog.
To end this here, I have to say; there is not any better way:
I do not like this thing called cancer.
Next time it calls, I will not answer.