Mutants and Missiles

My brain is melting. I am operating in a permanent semi-fog. I am the perfect date because I will say just enough to maintain conversation. In my period of hyperenergy, untethered by the swampy stew of decaying cells currently swirling about my thinking bits, I had developed a tendency for saying too much, too often, too loudly. Praise be, the curse has been lifted! Now I may operate like the friendliest of robots.

I take comfort in knowing that although my creativity has run off with my youth and vigor, my sarcasm remains in these mushy-mind times.

This latest dose of chemotherapy is not the worst I’ve had, for sure. My hair has a few more weeks to see if it’s going to stay, the nausea meds are hanging on tight, and I can still swallow at will. I will pat myself on the back after a brief bout of narcolepsy.

(...)

I have managed to walk myself into (surely?) the most hastily thrown-together clinical trial at such a prestigious institution. Initially I was sold on the idea of applied immunotherapy. I was assured it was “great science” and would only require a semi-regular dose of some mutant tcells who would, like biological X-Men or the finest of heat-seeking missiles (whichever analogy you prefer), target the blasted spots unlike anything has before and then I would skip off into the sunset, tumor and worry-free. I lie, of course. This sunset I speak of is actually a bone marrow transplant, with its own set of commitments and considerations.

I digress. Surely you wonder, dear reader, why I’m speaking of chemotherapy when the clinical trial pitch only mentioned tcells. Ah! What an astute observation. The chemotherapy was not mentioned during their pitch, nor follow-up, nor follow-up to the follow-up. And when the topic was breached, the requirements shifted no less than 3 times. 24 hour chemo? few hours chemo? 7 hour chemo? Oh, we can speed up the hydration to…5 hours. Oh good. Let me sit in this chair, with a tingly feeling akin to ice surging through my wrist, as you deliberate on the best course of action. Now that I have graduated, I have all the time in the world for you to determine the best possible way to kill off my white cells to “make room” for your well-disciplined mutants.

So here I sit, foggy and embittered, willing my immune system to “make room” for tomorrow’s houseguests. Let us hope they are well-behaved.

I know this blast comes out of nowhere for those of you who have become used to my poetic plodding, but I’m afraid this may be the tune of the day (week, month, some other unit of time). Also, for those who seek updates and know I am terrible at giving them, consider this part one. I think it is safe to assume if you are reading this, you are vaguely interested in the goings-on of my life. Or are a spam bot, but I'm not picky.