Vicodin Consulting

I write to you in fever and Vicodin haze. 


It seems things have taken a turn for the worse since I've last posted, as my mutant inhabitants have rendered me (at times) incapacitated, writhing in pain, calling out for some god, spirit, cereal mascot to intervene. The pharmaceutical gods have smiled on me, however, and now I get Vicodin!! 

I have also tapped into the alternative medicine font for pain relief. I am always amazed by the ability of properly placed acupuncture needle to reduce pain; the ability of peppermint oil to cool fever heat. Apparently, acetaminophen can be harmful to the liver in large doses! Which is super, not just because of the whole "my liver is already fucked" thing, but because I will probably be on some form of the drug for at least a month or two as I wait for a clinical trial spot to open up, which happens when they kill off a patient or see a cohort (group of patients) through a full treatment cycle. Of course I was not informed of this by my oncologist, who prescribed the acetaminophen, because he really likes for me to learn things on my own. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

...to convince myself he still possesses some iota of usefulness as I attempt to finagle a treatment plan with the combined efforts of my family and friends. 
So anyway, some creativity is needed on the pain relief front.

In order to circumvent the lack of guidance in this whole "finding a clinical trial so my tumors shrink and I do not die" thing, I have transformed myself into a clinical trial consultant. The job, like so many other glamorous consulting gigs, has a large travel component -- involving flying around the country to less-than-desirable locations to conduct industry research and facilitate deals. By "conducting industry research", I mean determining whether any of the information provided before the visit via phone, email, idiot nurse or clinicaltrial.gov posting is at all factual or rooted in reality. By "facilitating deals", I mean pitching my disease profile to oncologists while not-so-subtly begging them to test unproven toxic chemicals on my person. Unlike most top consulting firms, company X ("my body") provides no training or any actual benefits. Though company X's clinical trial team promises to cover all the bases of a proper consulting experience: schmoozing, analysis, long hours, and pretending I can solve complex problems in front of others. 

Tomorrow I arrive in the culinary capital of the world: Rochester, Minnesota. Frequent guests of the hotel I'm staying at boast proximity to the very best in Midwestern fine dining. This apparently refers to the Red Lobster and Olive Garden in the neighboring strip mall. 

This is of course assuming I even make it to the hotel in question, as I managed to book a flight on what is probably the only airline in history to receive multiple 'zero out of ten' customer reviews. This is all because I insisted on a direct flight, as any less time I can spend not catching pneumonia in a freezing cold cabin with wheezing old men is worthwhile. Side note: fevers are wildly useful if you find yourself in need of a makeshift radiator when dealing with what can only be the airline's best take on an adventure in Antarctica. There is some sweating involved, but I am told sweaty is the new "not sweaty", so ..

---

I meant to update sooner, but waking up around 5:30 every morning to writhe, cry, take drugs, and pray for some medically induced coma to befall me until I get into a clinical trial has a less than positive impact on one's ability to focus. I learn something new every day! If all goes well, you will have another Vicodin-fueled post coming at you soon. 

To tide you over, I'll leave you with some highlights of my Ohio trip:

sticky-handed oncologists, naps on stone slabs, and a pizza guy with an affinity for left-handers. yow-za.

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Becoming a Cat Lady

Some stay in New York for a job. Others stay for a significant other.

I stayed in New York for a hospital.

But now we're breaking up. Or at the very least, decided to see other people. Taking a break. We will "stay friends", keep each other posted on comings and goings, and occasionally share bodily fluids.
...in the least sexual way.

As happens in many relationships, we've outgrown each other. Rather, my hospital has nothing compelling to offer me in this stage of my life (/cancer).
So, I'm on the prowl. My hospital has encouraged me to play the field and check out multiple options before settling down. (The relationship analogies will eventually stop.)

(...but not just yet).

I'm flying out tomorrow to meet someone new. As with all first dates, I will gain no useful information. We will exchange basics and backgrounds. Only on a slightly different tune, as I will be regaling them with tales of the failed relationships of my past and every health malady I can scrounge up from recent memory and record. (Note: this is not a dating advice column. Everyone knows such material should be saved for dates 3 and 5!)

Unfortunately, the decision to have a second date is as much theirs as it is mine. As I court this new hospital, he may decide to wait before following up. (hospital will now be referred to as "he" in keeping with the theme.) He may decide that he is "not ready for something serious right now".  The timing may not be right. He may be unable to give me what I want. (drugs) He may be unable to satisfy my needs. (drugs) He may do and say all of the right things (read: give me the right drugs), as others have before him, and still come up short.

I share a concern of many women far older than I: the biological clock. Mine is also ticking, but not so much in the reproductive sense as in the productive sense. My ability to function independently is diminished every single day I go without effective treatment, as the tumors colonizing my vital organs grow unfettered. Each symptom of their success is a new warning sign, a new harbinger of doom.

Fever, fatigue, pain, and malfunction may very well be the Four Horsemen.

(Now that I've made you sufficiently depressed...)

Like so many sensing their own draining hourglass, I find myself in a rush to settle down. I find myself anxious to find the right hospital to grow old with. And like so many, I worry I may end up alone.

(Or with a cat or something. I'm not picky.)

Real Housewives

I don't want to be the well-heeled couple gushing
to another couple
about the many things we have bought and are buying.
The description of a carpet installation. The importance
of a theme-appropriate centerpiece.
Then I think:
I should be so lucky to make it to 40 and have a
normal enough suburban existence to appreciate
the mundane.
Revel in the negligible.
So what is it that I feel when I overhear them? Pity or
envy?
Each stomach spasm makes it harder to tell.

Tales of a Linguistic Anarchist

Am I a poet?
No.
I just enjoy being cavalier with
grammar and
sentence structure.
This masquerades well
as creativity.
I am fortunate to have found a space that
permits one to
tamper with forms and ideas,
cause literary mischief,
commit linguistic sins with impunity,
say "fuck off" to formality and
"hello"
to balderdash.
(tasty, tasty balderdash.)
These things are important to me,
not being a person who enjoys being told
what to do
how to do it
unless it is to do something particularly cool or
to avoid grave injury.
(hence the utility of mountain-climbing guidebooks)
It is decidedly misguided:
my appreciation for this space and
the freedom it provides,
as it gives false notions of what the world wants and
expects
from the ants that run it.
The supervisors of the ant hills,
the HR departments of the hives --
all with a set of rules and an appreciation
for the order they provide.
To those who say
"fuck order!" or
"fuck the hive!"
they will fine a certain amount this time,
the next requires a formal review,
and after that, well,
good bye!
Subversive use of grammar is hardly
the marker of an anarchist,
but
one would do well to obey.
You never know the list you'll end up on
next time you meet the TSA.