Balls, man. I’m feeling it.
I don’t know when I’ve ever been this tired. Maybe it’s the Tamoxifen (or “neat mix of” if you’re into anagrams). Maybe it’s the Death Star. I dunno what it is. But I’ve never been so tired in all of my life.
Then on Sunday the lower back pain started. The kind you can’t edge off with an ice pack or some Ibuprofen (or “bonfire up” if you’re into anagrams). So I think the Tie Fighters from the Death Star are making themselves heard. Fuckers. Who gave them the green light to set up an outpost?
My lymph nodes, apparently. They’re clear. The Death Star Tie Fighters zipped right past the barricades while the nodes were all sleeping on the job. I can see one or two of them nodding off–but all of them? Talk about a bunch of under performers. It’s embarrassing. I no longer speak to them.
The Death Star, smirking smugly, is jabbing me too. Yes, we all know you’re there. Shrink already, low life.
Of course my momentary whining does a disservice to the women whose words I read every day. They’re taking chemo, taking the hair loss in stride, sucking up the joint pain, the headaches, the skin problems, the sleeplessness; managing their respective diseases with headstrong resistance. Some are at the end of their disease. Others are spunky and busy advocates for real action. And there are the men out there dealing with their own damned breast cancers.
But in the end I can only feel what I feel.
It’s tough, man. And I’m really feeling it today.