Aug

There is nothing really funny about being doubled over on a toilet enduring severe abdominal cramps and the accompanying vile effuse while reciting every known English obscenity, quite a few French ones, and one choice bit of Serbo-Croatian that my Uncle Misa taught me when I was 16 and which I find particularly satisfying to (mis)pronounce in times of trial and outrage.  There is nothing funny about this scenario because there is nothing funny about mental illness, and in the grips of this latest post-treatment attack of the Screaming Trotskys I resembled nothing so much as one of those poor lost souls you see lurking in urban doorways, nattering and rocking away, uttering the occasional death threat while peering furtively out from their reeking person at the world around them with distrust and ill-will in their hearts.  We’re talking spitting image, except I had a toilet and clean hair.

I actually took my post-treatment low even lower while I cursed and clutched my belly in the semi-darkness of my (thankfully air-conditioned) bathroom: I imagined everyone I know engaged in something really fun and perfect, like splashing in a clear blue swimming pool, lounging on a dock at a cottage, or enjoying a cold beverage on a sunny patio.  This at least served to give me a series of mental targets for the more personal curses I was rattling off.

Now that I’m feeling all better (and have myself enjoyed the summer weather by splashing in a clear blue swimming pool) I’m feeling a little sheepish.  I offer my post-crisis apologies to everyone – really I didn’t mean what I called you and you do deserve to enjoy whatever little moments of glorious summer weather you can this year, regardless of what circle of hell I might be trapped in at the time. Carpe Diem – seize the sunny summer day.  Or in my case, Crappy Diem – seize the t-p.

Living with Breast Cancer