I have a question for you minions.

Since I came out with the news that I HAVE CANCER (echo chamber effect), I've gotten a hopload more followers and readers.

It strikes me that little to no good is coming out of that except some ego-stroking, which I certainly don't need.

It also has come to my attention that I've gotten a number of emails (more than ten) which have encouraged me to set up a tip jar for treatment expenses and so on.

Now: here's the deal:

As of right now, I don't need any extra cash. I'm getting by fine. I have people who owe me favors, and family who's willing to give me moolah if I need it. There are, however, people who are not as lucky as me.

Given that I have a cancer that is listed on the National Database of Orphan Diseases, it interests me that I might be able to make a difference for somebody with an orphan disease.

However, putting up a tip jar seems kinda... ... ...tacky.

What do you guys think? You're the ones who'd be donating money, either on an ongoing basis, or just once. You're the ones who'd have to dig into a pocket. Would you be willing to help support a really freaking obscure cause?

More importantly, would you be willing to trust me to pick a disease rare enough, and weird enough, to justify the efforts of HN readers?

Let me know what you think in the comments. I'm truly interested, though this may not get underway for a bit.

Thanks.

Jo

I just learned what's scarier than cancer.

(The scene: a quiet bedroom somewhere in the middle of Texas on a cool fall day. A gentle breeze moves the curtains at the windows as Our Heroine naps peacefully under the covers...)

Our Heroine: Mmmmmmmzzzzzzzwarmfuzzykittybellies.

(rolls over, wakes up slightly)

Our Heroine: Mmmmmkitties. Warm. Kitties. Wait.

(blinks)

(Our Heroine realizes that there is indeed one Warm Fuzzy Kitty atop the bed. The other is under the covers. With her. With claws.)

(cue Oboes of Doom)

Our Heroine: (absolute frozen silence and stillness. No blinking.)

Cat #1, under covers: (moves slightly)

Cat #2, atop covers: (looks interested)

Our Heroine: (absolute frozen silence and stillness)

(Oboes of Doom swell, to be joined by Strings Of Misery and Disaster)

Our Heroine: (watches as life flashes before eyes)

Cat #2, atop covers: (looks very interested indeed)

Cat #1, under covers: (sticks head out, looks innocent)

Our Heroine: *sigh of relief*

...and cut.

Gneh. (cancery goodness!)

That's my new word. Gneh. The "g" is not silent.

Gneh.

Sorry for the further cancery postingage. I just can't seem to get my head around work. Specifically, I can't understand why a person who is manifestly unable to maintain their own airway would be moved off a ventilator on a critical-care unit and into a floor bed, only to decompensate within about twenty minutes and have to be reintubated and returned to the CCU.

Sometimes cancer is easier than dealing with people. Especially doctor-people. Especially doctor-people who are not experts in patients who can't breathe and who therefore choose to ignore the advice of those doctors who specialize in the Not-Breathing Patient.

Anyway, I got an appointment with Obdurator-Dude today. For those of you who slept through the first half of class, an obdurator is a plastic widget that closes an open palate. Given that I'm going to lose a nice chunk of my palate during surgery, I'll kind of need an obdurator so I don't have macaroni and cheese coming out my nose every time I speak.

Lovely.

Apparently these things are made of solid 26-karat Unobtainium with a Marvellium augment. The up-front cost of the damned thing--and this is actually about a third of the real cost--is going to be more than a thousand smackers. Don't leave your obdurator on the cafeteria tray, kiddo!

Don't let this be you!

Plus, the one guy in the state with whom my surgeon likes to do business is an inconveniently long way away, in an inconvenient part of Yeehawville. Oh, well. They're seeing me tomorrow for X-rays and molds (eugh gneh gneh herk bleh) and bleeding and so on. If this dude is not attired in green lederhosen, sitting at a workbench, carefully sculpting each prosthetic by hand as his eyes twinkle over his half-moon glasses and bluebirds twitter around him, I am going to be really fucking disappointed. You'd think for three grand you'd get a couple of bluebirds.

I have also ordered several Books On Cancer. This is an important step in the Holy Shit I Guess I Really Do Have Cancer process, as I generally only read about things in real honest to Frog books that I want to know more about. The Interwebs are fine and all, but highlighters don't work on my LCD screen. All these books have to do with emotional wellness and nutrition, two subjects about which I do not know nearly enough. Plus, I've got a buddy doing research on those things for me, so I think I'm set there.

Holy shit. I guess I really do have cancer.

And with that, I'm going to go have a sandwich.

Cleanin' out the shed like a motherf*ckin' ADULT!

It's polar opposite day!

No, these don't have anything to do with cleaning out the shed. Why do you ask?

Things nobody tells you about having cancer...

Last cancerycancercancersons post for a while, I swear; I just can't get my head around nursey stuff at quarter-to-oh-shit in the morning today.

1. Nobody tells you about Sad Face, Oh-Isn't-She-Brave Face, and their corollaries.

Friend Lara and I were corresponding about this the other day: every person you tell you have cancer puts on a Face. It could be Sad Face, or the OISB Face, but there's a Face that goes with the diagnosis. I suppose it's a natural reaction; hell, if I had told me I had cancer, I would've looked pretty sad at the news. Still, you start steeling yourself for it.

Perhaps the best facial expression I've seen came from Ginny, the Highly Inappropriate Chaplain. She peered down at me from her tremendous height and squinted one eye and screwed up her mouth, and I started laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

2. The words, "You're so brave" and "You're so tough" get really old.

I know it's a compliment, and I know I should be thankful....but you know what? I'm not really all that brave. This is what it is, and I'm just putting one foot in front of the other, living in a state of combined denial and narration. Every test I have I'm scared to the teeth. I wake up in the middle of the night feeling a tightness in my neck and wonder if that's yet another lymph node. There is a little, quiet voice in the back of my mind that reminds me that I just might die if I'm incredibly unlucky.

I am not brave. You do what you have to do in this situation. You can only be po-mouthed about it for so long; then you realize that the dishes--even if you have cancer--are not going to do themselves, so you do them.

3. It does not go away.

Even for five minutes. I managed to forget, day before yesterday for a whole thirty seconds, that I have cancer. That's the best I've done in three weeks.

4. Discipline can go out the window, if you let it. This is bad.

Bottle of champagne and cheap-ass carnitas from the tamale cart for dinner? Sign me up! That's one reason I'm having a combined mental and physical health day off today. And believe me when I tell you that I woke up this morning and realized that yes, I might have cancer, but that doesn't give me license to treat my body like shit in the guise of making myself feel better.

It's understandable how some people go off the rails. Still, you can't spend every minute from diagnosis to cure running amok; never mind the ramifications for treatment, who wants to live hung over *and* with cancer? I'll take just the cancer, please, without the side of herk bleh.

5. You never realize how many friends you have until....

Friend Lara said, "Is it just me, or are you feeling huge amounts of love too?"

Yeah, I am. It's humbling as hell, you know? If I were to stand outside myself, I'm not sure I would like me very much--but then, I know all the nasty little linty, dark corners of my own soul. Apparently I hide them from other people well enough, or overcompensate for them well enough, that outsiders think I'm okay.

And the quality of your friends becomes apparent, too. Nurse Ames has been fantastic through all of this, as have Stoya and the Boss Man and Kiva and all the rest of the people I work with. Not everybody can drive me to and from appointments like Ames does; Stoya, for instance, is not a warm-fuzzy type. She still sends me texts, though, that say things like "How's yer trap?" and "Dead yet?" You need both kinds of friends when you're going through this, and I'm lucky to have them.

6. You're still an asshole, even if I have cancer.

If I couldn't find it within me to like you before, I am unlikely to change my opinion of you now that I have this diagnosis. See "Sanchez, Rick" and "Armey, Dick" for details.

7. I'm still an asshole, even if I have cancer.

And you know what? It's okay to call me on it. I've said before that being sick tends to make people more of what they are, down deep; sometimes, that means you're a bigger asshole than you ever were well. You can get mad at me, as Lara says; it's not going to break me or make me sicker. It's okay to treat me like a normal person. I am not Ma's little china lady on the shelf Pa carved back in the Big Woods.

And that is all for now. I'm going to go repair the damage to the kitchen that the Parkour Kitties did last night--Frog Himself only knows what they were chasing, but it must've been very exciting. Then yardwork and laundry and reading something interesting and shopping for a small television (no, the world's not ending) with DVD player and maybe a shower later.

I'm going to have a nice, uncancery day today.