The Bitch Advocate (Formerly Known as the Squeaky Wheel)

My friend Ellen has threatened to stop reading my blog if I don’t start mentioning her again. “From now on, I’m not going to read any stories or articles that aren’t about me,” she informed me one day. “I just don’t have that kind of time.”

I was about to tell her that she should be more supportive because, you know, I have cancer, when I remembered that she has been the person most often reminding me that I have cancer. “You have CANCER!” she would console me, when I worried about slacking off at work. “YOU have CANCER!” she would repeat, when I was upset about another sick friend.

You hear a lot about how you need to be your own advocate in our modern health care “system.” What you really need is someone who follows you around like a faithful, bomb-sniffing dog, constantly prowling for little threats to your health and safety, ready to pounce when necessary: SHE HAS CANCER! LEAVE HER ALONE! ANSWER HER QUESTION! GET HER WHAT SHE NEEDS! STAT! GRRRR!!

A sailing buddy who recently spent six weeks in the hospital after “routine” surgery has another term for this: The Bitch Advocate. In his case, it’s his wife. Respected surgeons apparently run for cover when they see her coming down the hall. Clearly, I need a wife.

Know Thyself

Here is a philosophical question: If one goes to see the Dalai Lama speak at a sold-out Kimmel Center appearance, but scams her way in by asking old co-workers to spot her a ticket, does that cancel out the spiritual value of the pilgrimage? Does playing the cancer card give a person bad karma? Do Buddhists even believe in karma?

Karma seems more up the alley of the yogi whose meditation class last Monday night was attended by a woman who had never been there before. The intense but welcoming Yogi Shanti wanted to know what the woman was looking for, which was a very good question indeed, even if somewhat horrifying when asked in front of everybody else in the room. The seeker didn’t have a good answer, but she had ponied up the $18 fee for this one and wasn’t about to wimp out so she mumbled something about “stress relief.” This appeared to be the wrong answer.

Absolutely Hilarious

Image courtesy of the artist, Buck Cash. For more cancer cartoons, visit his website HERE.

Is That All There Is?

Dr. R thinks it’s time we start seeing other people. In stereotypical bad break-up timing, he delivered this news on a Friday, just before the weekend, after making me wait an hour to see him.

No, he informed me, he didn’t want to keep that PET scan date we had been planning for a month, and he thought it best to cancel our weekly blood test rendezvous. Better just to finish up the chemotherapy and then go our separate ways for awhile.

Except for this not entirely unexpected development, the last day of chemo—June 27—was utterly uneventful. After an anxious build-up, the 8th and final treatment went so smoothly, it barely registered. I had expected to write through most of it, raging about headaches and chemo farts and the creepy way my veins feel, like they’re just going to burst and send blood spurting all over. I thought I would detail every last minute, but once I was in the chair, it was too much effort to open my laptop. Maybe I’m suffering from chemo brain after all.