Junkie...

I like keeping it real. That is, of course, except with cancer and then I like keeping it behind my refrigerator. I thought I liked attention. You know… come over to my house. We can drink, hang out at the pool, and Bruce can cook you something fattening while we discuss my cancer. Let me tell you all about my week; my chemo; the burning sensation in my mouth, my constipation, the heartbreak of my oncoming death.

Cancer attention is not pretty. Everyone looks at you differently. They come over and sit around. They bring stuff to your house as if you are sick. Oh shit. I guess I am sick.

I forgot.

I feel just fine. Cancer doesn’t make me feel sick, after all – it’s the damn drugs that make me want to stick needles in my eyeballs. The less I think about it the better I feel, but every time I turned on the TV…

*BAM*

More cancer commercials. They even have one where some lady talks about her Lymphoma and how it came back stronger and almost killed her twice. Oh for godsakes, I am just sitting and having a nice vanilla latte and…

*BAM BAM*

This was sounding like the Cancer with Emeril array of advertisements. I may puke. I mean… puke… some… more.

Then there were the support groups. I’m sorry. I am just not a support group person. I put out an FYI to all of my born-again neighbors that they could bring me wine and drugs. If they had any extra bottles of Valium or Xanax, I would be just fine even if the expiration date was a little off. No problemo. I was thinking of my future. I didn’t want their prayer chains, their bad casseroles with mushroom soup, noodles and a promise. I wanted to hoard wine and drugs for later. I figured with this kind of sensatitonal attention, I could end up with a decent wine cellar. There would be a later, right? I had a future. Didn’t I?

I can dream.

I love research. I love to read, write and get on the net; look things up. Everyone knows - I have an entire life of online best friends. Okay, I’ve never met most of them, but… well never mind. If you are one of them, you know what I mean. In this particular cancer scenario, I did no research. I had a wonderful tactic of complete and utter denial. This would work. I told the doctor: “I don’t want to know much. When you put that horse needle in my hip to get that bone marrow tomorrow, I don’t want to see it, and I don’t want to know how far it is going in. I want drugs… the maximum amount possible, and I want you to smile as if this walk-in-the-park is happening to some other chick.” Bite the bullet and think of some sandy beach in Fiji, Sally. I can do it… I would just drug up now and detox my liver later.

GOD was totally into the drugs. I am worse than an Apache on a reservation with drugs and alcohol. Face it, with drugs, I have no reservations. I will get through this like a champion. I’ll listen to Queen; that’s right. “We arrrrre the chaaaampions, my friend…” There would be theme songs. There would be signature drinks with swizzle sticks and chemo parties. I wasn’t going to let this get to me like some normal person. After all, I had drugs from everyone.

I will do this my way- with GOD, Rhianna, Marvin Gaye, my family, my friends, an appetizer of ignorance, an entrée of denial, a sleeping pill salad and a delicious sweet, creamy dessert of…

MORE… DRUGS.

Gotta love Freddie Mercury in his tighty-whities.