PITA

No, I haven't made the jump to eating breads of any type, much as I would love to--PITA is my favorite acronym, for pain in the ass. 

I thought of it several times yesterday as I had a day that was as pita as they come.

Although my neck situation has delayed the beginning of radiation and chemo a few days (and I haven't gotten final clearance), we did the dry run of radiation and it doesn't look like it's going to be fun. I was there, the mask was there, the flat unpadded table was there--and again they pinned me down with the mask, flat on my back, shirtless, in a cold room. There was Big Band music and the ceiling looked like stars--those were advances in the basic humanity of the situation, and they put what felt like a clown nose in my right hand--once the machine starts, they leave the room, and the only way to indicate distress is to squeeze the ball which honks. 

Why did I have the idea that this would be done comfortably? I actually thought I might sit in a chair and the machine might pop up in front of me like an alien and zap zap zap while I sat there lost in my dumbfounded thoughts. Or a lazy boy--they love for you to sit in recliners while you get chemo, so why must I be pinned down on an unpadded table and why the hell is this room like a refrigerator?

Cold gets me easily these days--a bit of chill and I'm ready for a down parka. My body temperature has, along with my weight, dropped a bit. I average 96.4 when I see the doctors, and I just don't burn quite as brightly as before. My hands are constantly cold, though oddly enough, when it was 80 here the other day, I thought I'd die of the heat. I'm a petite flower these days, I suppose, requiring the Goldilocks temperature to thrive. 

Anyway, the only non-pita things about daily radiation? Nice techs and it only takes around 20 minutes a shot--but it's 5 days a week. That's right, Monday through Friday, like a job. 

PITA, too, that I had to return to the clinic in the afternoon to see the breezy surgeon, who was to confer upon the neck situation and how best to handle it. He came in from his day's surgery work, and even though I was his only patient to see in-office, still managed to do so 20 minutes late. As I finally entered the exam room, and when he finally showed up, he looked at me and said: "you're stylin' today, buddy."

Ok, I admit I was styling a bit--but the problem with styling is that clothes should look good on you, not hang as if one is oneself a hanger--and that's what clothes do on me right now. I could zip by in a Dolce and Gabbana skinny suit (and it would fit because there's no meat on me right now), and it would look like a rack of cloth being pushed down Seventh Avenue in NYC. Sorry, I'm not joking, it's just the reality of the situation. 

In comparison to the rest of the waiting room today, my charcoal chambray pants, saucony black and orange sneakers, black Ben Sherman Plectrum polo and my sharp Mammoth charcoal grey and red lined sweater are all good things to wear. They are styling.  That much, I admit.

But one is not styling with a seeping hole in one's neck. One which our friend looked at, poked at, caused me to half scream and then said: "sorry, buddy." He took a five minute phone call and then turned back around and said: "Wound failure..." as if that were the next sentence he meant to utter on the terminated phone conversation. 

So, I have wound failure--improper healing in this spot, and now I have to pack it with material which abrides the wound surface and prompts it to re=initiate the healing sequence. "Sorry that you're having more problems, buddy, but I didn't think I'd see you for two months." Me too, PITA, me too...

I shouldn't rag on this guy so much, I know--the problem is that he's a dude, and I'm not. Because he recognizes me as another male, he speaks to me as he would normally speak to any dude bro who was next in line for the pisser at a football stadium. It's going to take a while and dudes will, as dudes are wont to do, dude speak to pass the time and forget that they massively have to take a leak. 

Lately, I've been watching a lot of old Entourage episodes. That's a show that many people are surprised I like--and it surprises me too but for one important fact:  the show hinges upon guys who are deeply committed to one another. And that's a relationship I've never had with another man, and it fascinates me.

I truly have never hung with a guy posse--at least one that wasn't self-identified as a gay one, I've never really had friends who were dude-ish, whose main criteria for one's cool wasn't a bon mot, but a beer and brat. So watching that unfold in this show is something I don't get tired of, and that I find endlessly fascinating.

I've always been a woman's man, I love hanging out with women, chatting with them, working with them, working for them--I choose women doctors whenever possible. For whatever reason I have zero sexual interest in women, but will die if don't get to vote for Hilary Clinton as president in 2016.

I hear that women are the ultimate PITA. I may be too. Yesterday, I thought of snappy answers to make to the doctor's inane comments, but I refrained. I was tired, somewhat traumatized, and I just wanted it over with--something like a blind date between a hot chick and a hot freak arranged as a dude favor. And just like our hot chick in the metaphor, I had no intention of putting out.

Instead, today, I'm poking material in wound failures in my body, hoping I get to be irradiated on schedule, and with better grace, than my PITA Wednesday indicated.