Of Hot Nurses and Anticipation

Hahahaha.

No more trips to the bloody hospital.

Hahahaha.

No more eyeballing that hot blonde nurse and her even hotter brunette counterpart. No more looking away quickly when they noticed me looking at them. No more seeing the affable Dr. Penn.

No more trying to muster up a smile, act nonchalant and with bravado when deep down I am really scared and afraid shitless. That's right, shitless. Bracing myself on every visit for the prognosis, drains all the life force out of you.

But now, I am super. Just super.

Thank you for all the encouragement, the comforting words of support and the prayers. I am eternally grateful.

Fresh Fish

In lieu of the recent influx of bright eyed juniors from Malaysia coming here with dreams and ambitions as high as the sky to start their tertiary education, I would just like to say one thing.

Welcome. (read: welcome fishies to my hook)

I Don't Have Hair

Chemo is an ugly and petty process where they directly inject poison into your bloodstream. Super. I will not talk about it anymore, following posts will only be about rainbows, sunshines, cupcakes and painkillers. (bullshit alert)

My doc decides to cut my hair short because it is not falling off fast enough (huh?). My body temp will spike during the process and a shorter hair will cool my body temp faster, makes sense?. It did when I had a needle stuck in my thigh.

Here is a little pictorial ramblings about the evolution of my hair.This could be quite a post, better get a cuppa. If you don't feel like it, there's a little red button on the upper right corner of your browser. Click it and see what happens.

That is me in September. Still with a belly and long, unkempt hair. Others may detest it but I love my hair. At this time, the world was a better place. For the record, it usually took me 7 minutes to dry my hair when I come out from the shower.

That was taken early October. A few days before I started to feel like a shithouse (a French word). It was only a muscle tear, I can barely walk at that time. And it took me about a minute to get my hair dry.

MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING! Someone get a pitchfork and jam it into his throat! Go for the jugular! Kill it! Kill it! Die you monstrosity! Die!......moving along.

Now that is me the day the orderly decides to be a hair stylist and gave me a Britney look, after her breakdown. And it only took me about 5 seconds to get my hair/dome/skongs dry. I told you I would look like Uncle Fester.

That's all folks, we've been great.

I Don't Want To Know

I don't like talking about it. I don't want others to know about it. I've kept it under wraps for some time now. I just don't want to think about it.

But due to numerous concerned emails, personal messages and phone calls I felt obliged to tell. I have several tumours on my leg. One is definitely malignant.

I have been undergoing chemotherapy for 2 weeks. For reasons that escape me, surgery is not an option at the moment.

I think I'm responding well. Yes, hair is definitely falling off. Yes, I am losing weight. But no, I don't look like Ben Kingsley on drugs. Yes, at times the left leg feels like it is dangling by a thread.

Scared? Pfft, no way. I am bloody terrified.

Thank you for your concern but don't worry too much about me. I'll get through this and I'll be running around like a headless chicken again in no time, I hope.

At times like these, there's a girl I can always rely on to always be there. But now, she's gone. Sigh.