Happy Birthday to Mike

I am trying something new here, actually a few new things. Today is my husband’s birthday and as a super special treat, I am letting him take me to chemo and will earnestly attempt to keep all stomach contents either soundly in my digestive system or, at the very least, in the toilet bowl. No sinks today. For Mike, it must be the most disappointing birthday of his life. There is nothing I can give to him, say to him or write to him, that aptly expresses my gratitude and indeed reliance on him over the past six months. He has cared for me, tidied for me, tolerated my volatile moods and all I can give to him in return is a card with some excessively scrutinised yet still inarticulate words and this rather public outcry of affection. Happy birthday sweet. I am sorry.

This is my first pre-day-of-chemo post. I already feel nauseous and am disappointed because I know the queasiness is all in my head. There is no biological reason to feel unwell, it is purely anxiety. Which is odd in itself as by now I know the drill. I guess there is a little nervousness as to how my body will respond; it does seem to change with each session. I desperately do not wish a re-enactment of my previous session, however theatrical it may have been. So here I sit, a tap tap tapping away at the keyboard, hoping that my thoughts can successfully be transformed into words. I feel I am letting my little black notebook down; I am typing this out directly (thus it is missing an important editorial stage; forgive me) so my little black notebook misses out on my brain working this particular day.

In previous posts I have proclaimed my physical woes in the hope that I will keep the complaining to a minimum when or if I happen to speak or write to you. This I think, but please correct me if I am wrong, is having a small degree of success. However, that little bastard painter with his black paintbrush and his daubing of thoughts has managed to lodge himself firmly back into my psyche. I may not be complaining about my spleen in public, but not much else I say is very positive. The bitter old man rants spurt from my mouth before I realise what is happening. I have morphed into both Statler and Waldorf; acrimonious, horrible, nearly nasty pensioners in the body of a twenty nine year old woman. Amusing to watch if one is a fly on the wall, but for those actually living amongst these tactless tirades, well it is highly unpleasant. I am finding it highly unpleasant. I catch myself mid-rant thinking “Liv, have you said anything decent all day? You are really pissing me off!” Somebody has created a near exact duplicate of me; it looks like Liv, sounds like Liv, dresses like Liv, but the duplicate is a total asshole. Lines intended as jokes are spat out in spiteful tones, words upon words, ill-thought, if thought at all. An exasperated internal voice is screaming stop, please, just stop talking. But no. No, this duplicate Liv, with her intolerance and her perceived self-righteousness prances around spouting utter bullshit in a horrid splenetic tone. The worst of it is I can see others are, if not listening, at least aware of these stupid words, words that should be meaningless but, unfortunately, are the sort that one never forgets. And it isn’t anger or repulsion that I see in the eyes of my sufferers, it is pity. If I happen to have enough social awareness to direct my gaze in the direction of the particular victim of the moment, I am greeted with large unblinking eyes of the deepest pity. What has become of you, these eyes are asking, how will you recover? Not recover from the cancer, but recover from the bitterness that has lodged itself firmly in my brain, its own little tumour metastasising throughout my body.

So how do I deal with this? Illicit drugs maybe? I can’t exactly write post after post about my petty never-ending frustrations with the human race. I would require, at a bare minimum, a nom de plume if I were to do such a thing. It obviously requires a degree of self-awareness and energy to filter internal thoughts prior to verbalisation, and I am lacking both aspects at present. I need thought dialysis, although I guess that is essentially the role of the media these days. It is, again, with enormous frustration that I admit this rather large fault in my current personality. I don’t like it, I want it to stop. What I am trying to do here, I think, is apologise for my past actions and to let you all know that I am trying to rectify the situation. Hopefully, the outbursts of UKIP like hatred will soon cease, and I may be a moderately tolerable person to be around.  

For now I will use biblical inspiration and, with the strength of a unicorn (Numbers 23:22), prepare myself for the upstairs bus ride with the weekday Brighton eccentrics, in order to endure my next course of cytotoxins. If I am bitter now, imagine what poor Mike will be dealing with nine hours from now.