How to Re-Build the Perfect Monster

Yesterday I met with my medical oncologist. She is the one in charge of the chemotherapy.

My blood platelets, applets and cotlets, are too low, which affect my marrow, which affects my bruising, and my cruising, so let’s call the whole thing off, and break out in a Broadway song,”To Marrow, To Marrow!”

My marrow is creeping at a petty pace from door to door, while I feel like a pair of ragged claws dropped by a seagull. Yesterday was bad. Epic BAD. Lots of puking.

There is something about puking that gets attention. Even when the bile is low and that “puke” is mainly juicy stringy spit.

Cue spit take.

Now a spit take is funny, while everyday ordinary puking is not. It’s all in the context and timing. Anyway, the timing was good yesterday as my oncologist said I had suffered enough, and due to the applets and cotlets and platelets, we were canceling my chemo today.

This means I am done with chemo. But not nausea. Mr. Sartre’s got me in his spell, that old black magic that I puke so well. Please note: it is not black, as that would indicate blood, and that is not happening.

But the gauntlet of chemo is laid down as I am too gaunt. I still have 6 more radiation treatments. And 32 more Fuck Cancer t-shirts that need to sell -for those counting at home. Plus a stockpile of anti- nausea medicine that I may have to donate to the many who can’t afford to not puke. Yes, Virginia, there are folks who need financial help with puking or not puking.

Puke is a funny word. It sounds funny. P-Yuke.

Not to be confused with puce. Which can be a a colour of puke. Or pumice. Or pumas.

Yea, verily, he puked pumas. Large black cats. Their claws ripping through the paltry flesh in his throat. Bursting to the other side. Free at last.

Now is getting to the time of rebuilding the perfect monastery. I meant monster. Either way. One man’s monastery is another man’s monster.

The accent is placed on the rebuilding, not the perfection. So how do we we rebuild the blood chemistry, the immune system, my ground to air cruise missile, so I can get back to writing more bruisey missives.

As Anne Lamott says, bird by bird. GERD by GERD. Or word by word. Starting with the strongest word in the human language, which is help.

Help!

Can we get some good help in here? Can I get me a witness?

Help comes in the form of healing thyself. Sleep. Rest. The three R’s.

Repetition Repetition Repetition.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Beets. Probiotics. Antioxidants.

But in the short term, I will try to consume anything that I can get to go down and stay down. Stay down! As the alpha dog, I command my inner terrier to get down, stay down, and for Dog’s sake, don’t bring up the subject of regurgitation. Or the practice. Can you believe some people’s kids practice this slippery science?

What can I bring up?

Like a Princess, my friends, bringing it up like a Princess.

I remember Max. Our schnauzer we inherited out in White Rock. Racked by his own cancers, Max was the bravest dog ever. He was there for Michelle’s Dad. He was a champ. A tramp for the ages.

That Christmas when he ate the dipping chocolate and the brandy beans. Standing in the middle of the living room, discombobulated, barking at invisible squirrels, with each bark, he sort of hops. He would go outside and puke it up, come inside and bark, then go back outside and eat the chocolate puke, which caused him to puke again. It was a loop until I discovered his agony, and found a giant rock to cover the original dog vomit. He was still barking later that night into morning. Chocolate is supposed to kill dogs. But not Max.

Max took it in and brought it back up, and went back to the well time and time again. He was definitely affected negatively by this experience. Walking funny. Was it the chocolate or a brain tumour?

We took him a few times to the country vet, Dr. Om. Each time, he would bounce back at the brink of being brought down. So we brought him back. Again.

One day he sadly died, having been let out in the yard one night, some confusion ensued, and he was not under the bed where he normally hid. I searched high and low, and found his lifeless body surrounded by dead leaves in the swimming pool.

I cried like an Italian mother.

Did he fall in? Did Toodles and Maisy push him in?

We will never know.

What we do know is Max was the bravest.

Always on Guard.

And I will take my inspiration from that little schnauzer today.

Never give up.