My atomic vagina

Hello all,
I know it's been a few days since I last posted, but I have been too darn fatigued to do anything other than hibernate for the past few days.

Radiation makes me so tired that I have to nap after I shower or eat, and yawning seems to use a lot of energy.

I have been doing one thing other than going to my daily appointments and sleeping, I must confess. I have also been watching as my hips and bum follow my vagina and change colour before my very eyes.

My chemo doctor says I'm famous again. (Did I tell you that I'm famous with the cervical oncologists at the cancer centre? No? I'll save that funny story for another day).
He says he saw the pictures of my lady parts (Are they stuck to a corkboard back there somewhere? Probably....) and wanted to have another look.

(My picture is probably right in the middle, next to a lady with elephantiasis of the labia or something)

He and his nurse got a good look at it all,

then he said he has seen a skin condition similar to this IN JAPANESE PEOPLE IN HIROSHIMA FOLLOWING THE ATOMIC BOMB. Are you fucking kidding me? My vagina looks like it's been through nuclear warfare?!? I mean, even if you thought that, you still shouldn't have told ME. So, I came home and said to myself,

Me and my atomic vagina bid you all a good night.

Why am I always a schmozzle?

I went to my regular appointment yesterday and the doctor took one look at my lady parts and said she's never seen anything like it in her life. IN HER LIFE. Do you know how many vaginas that woman has seen in her life? Must be hundreds. Thousands even. But she's never seen one like mine.
Know why?
Because mine looks like the tanning lady's.

Yep, it's like I've been bathing my nether regions in self tanner. George Hamilton and I should hook up.
The oncologist brought in a colleague who has also been looking at vaginas for years and years. Guess what? She's NEVER SEEN THIS EITHER. *SIGH*
They took pictures and are going to share these with other doctors in hopes of finding an explanation.( I wish I'd known this appointment was going to turn into a photo shoot. I would have tried to gussy myself up for the occasion.)

(#glamourshot#nofilter)

I then had to explain to the doctor that this wasn't altogether surprising to me. Do you know why? Because any kind of strange or bizarre happenstance will undoubtedly happen to this girl. Honestly. I'm a schmozzle. I should have warned her ahead of time what kind of patient she was dealing with, but that really would have ruined the element of surprise.

So, I then listed my possible explanations:
1. I have reverse Michael Jackson disease
2. I am morphing into a woman of colour and the change is starting at my vagina
3. The cancer is literally leaving my cervix and seeping out my pores.

She said she was glad I hadn't lost my sense of humour. I don't think she's going to explore those options as in-depth as she ought to.

What we actually talk about at the cancer clinic

Snippets of conversations you can hear at the cancer clinic:

Chemo Doctor: Did you receive treatment yesterday?
Me: Yes. I had brachythterapy.
Doctor: And how are you now?
Me: I'm in some pain.
Doctor: Well, you'll have to take that up with the radiation oncologist because that's got nothing to do with me.
Me: That's helpful. Thanks.

Me in the brachytherapy room; legs stretched into stirrups, partially sedated, "Uh, do I still have to have a CT scan?"
Nurse: Yes.
Me: In this room?
Nurse: No, down the hall.
Me: You're not going to roll me down the hallway with my legs in the air, are you?
Nurse: <laughs> No one's ever asked me that before.
Me: ARE YOU?
Nurse: <laughs harder> No.
Me: Thank Jesus.

Well that sucked

I had my first brachytherapy treatment yesterday, and it sucked. That's by far the worst part of this battle I'm waging against cancer.
The nurses there are probably among the nicest and most empathetic human beings on the face of the earth. Little brachy angels sent from heaven to take care of me. I know why now- because the treatment bloody well hurts.
They sedate me (but only just enough to keep me from saying, "Fuck this", hopping off the table, and running into the streets in my bare arse),

then proceed to fill my various organs with balloons and ply my vagina with every instrument under the sun. I think I saw them try to stuff a tuba in there.

Maybe that was the drugs...
Just when they have everything feeling down there like it's about to explode, they are ready to start. And by "they" I mean the doctor, intern, 3 nurses and physicist. It was quite the party.

They roll me down the hall to have a CT scan, where they inform me that I am full of poop (tell me something I don't already know- refer to blog #2) and that will make the procedure more painful. Awesome. Can't wait. Thanks for the heads up.

They finally get me and the robot set up and let the radiating rock hang out with my lady parts a while, then informed me that the treatment was successful. Thank Gawd. I'm going to spend the day in bed in the fetal position until I get over the trauma of it all.
I never wanted a boring life, but this wasn't exactly what I meant, either.

I'm spending quality time with my cervix and uterus today

Good morning,

I'm up and have got to make the most of the day. Spend some quality time with my lady parts. Why, you may ask? Because they are gonzo as of tomorrow. Bye Bye, uterus and cervix. We shared some fun times.

Tomorrow marks day 1 of brachytherapy and this is when shit gets real. Really real. The therapists walked me through the process last week. I tried to look like this when they were explaining it to me:

Like I've got this handled or something. I think I was more like this, though:

They showed me the piece of radiation that they will actually PUT INSIDE ME using a robot-like machine and they will position it in my body from two rooms away. I had nightmares about this last night. Like, I spiked a fever, and that lit up the yellow rock inside me and this happened:

I feel it is my civic duty to warn you all ahead of time, you know? I'm thinking that's a worst case scenario, but it could happen. If you happen to have a hazmat suit, tomorrow might be a good day to wear it if you live in the Hammer.

You can thank me later.

I hope my oncologist doesn't fire me as his patient

I think I am in trouble; Big trouble.

Let's backtrack a bit first. I would like to think of myself as a well-groomed kind of gal. Top to bottom. Well, when you have cervical cancer, like I do, you must change some of these grooming habits to non-grooming habits- catch my drift?
Apparently, radiation thins the layers of skin, so shaving, waxing or using creams will further thin those skin layers and may/will result in rashes or radiation burns.
Sweet baby Jesus in the sky- I really DO NOT want my lady parts burnt.

Well...what do you do in that itchy in-between phase, huh? There's NO mention of that in those super-helpful pamphlets you gave me about crotch cancer. **Sigh**

So, I scratched. And I scratched. Then I panicked, slathered my lady parts in hydrocortisone cream and went to bed relieved. I sure as hell didn't wake up relieved, though!
I got up, took a shower, and, low and behold- IT'S GONE.

I'm bald. FML. It's like the chemo missed the hair on top of my head, and went for the nether regions instead. My doctor's going to think I did it on purpose to be a high-maintenance asshole. I can't avoid him seeing it either, since I have to drop my drawers and flash my bits and pieces to every random at the cancer centre at each appointment. HE'S GOING TO KNOW, and he's going to be like:

and then his nurse is going to be like:

Awesome. I've really done it this time. If anyone needs me, I'll be googling small wigs and toupes this weekend.

Guess what? I pooped.

TGIF, baby.
It's Friday, I'm up at 6:08am and I already know I am going to have the best day ever. Seriously, the best. Anybody up? I need to start making plans...let's go for lunch, a walk, shopping; I'm going to put on some makeup today and everything. Want to know why? I POOPED.

Doesn't sound like much to you, but to someone with cancer, this is everything! I need to start rewriting the pamphlets at the Cancer Centre I go to for treatment. Don't get me wrong, they're informative. I know all about my crotch, crotch treatment...blah, blah, blah...

What they don't inform you of is this: THE BEST DAYS YOU'LL HAVE ARE THE ONES WHERE YOU WENT POOPY. No joke.

The side effects of treatment are worse and will cause you greater discomfort than your cancer ever did.   Well, I just had chemo yesterday and the drugs they prescribe me keep the violent nausea at bay, but constipate me so much, I practically have poop coming out my eyeballs. Not just any kind of poop, either. I'm talking excrement of a radioactive nature. That kind of shit will kill ya (literally).
I, smarty-pants that I am, downed a dozen high-fibre chewies yesterday and ate a giant bowl of spicy three bean chili in order to outwit the poop gods. And it worked! I pooped and I am going to have a great day because of it. It's the simple things in life, you know?

Happy Friday, everyone!

Free Therapy

So, I may have found an appropriate outlet to express my perspectives of the world around me. Hello Blog-o-sphere! I am an average girl dealing with not-so-average problems, namely cancer, cervical cancer to be precise.
I've been told that my work anecdotes have been blog-worthy, so I am hoping my sick girl rants will be just as entertaining.
I'll start with yesterday's adventure- the post-radiation trip to WalMart. You know those pictures people post on FB of weirdos at Walmart? Yeah, I am pretty sure they were all from Hamilton, and that they were all there yesterday. And they brought their douchebag cousins just to piss me off.

**side note** Having cancer is like having the worst form of PMS all of the time. Always. I'm an impatient asshole, but have managed to keep my surliness confined to an inner dialogue up until now, thankfully.

Anyway, back to Walmart douchebags. I only went to Walmart to buy the things I needed to look after the hemerrhoids that cancer has bequeathed to me (thanks a heap, cancer). I am cranky. My butthole hurts. I just want to get in, grab my preparation 8, my baby bumbum wipes, and get out. Simple, yes? No, no it isn't. You want to know why? Because someone is incessantly standing the fuck in my way while I am trying to get to the butt aisle I need. Seriously? Did you not know that you weren't supposed to position your cart horizontally so that NOT A SINGLE PERSON CAN PASS while you are deciding on which Lipton's Side Kicks you are going to treat yourself with this week? You are a moron. Move the fuck out of the way, and let me and my sore asshole get by. What I actually said was, "Excuse me," for which I was rewarded with a sigh and roll of the eyes. Lady, you need to go to shopping etiquette school. I'm going to start writing tickets for this kind of douchebaggery.