Just these past couple of days, the Regorafenib has decided to talk to me through my feet. Last night whilst trying to fall asleep, I experienced a deep, dull ache in my left foot, while my right foot itched and burned terribly. It was quite distracting. Also a bit odd in the asymmetry. Clearly I should be icing more. In other news, my GI continues wonky in fairly inconsistent ways. Which admittedly is hardly news, but it's annoying in that I keep having to adapt my behaviors and expectations. For example, the drive home from Long Beach yesterday afternoon included about 45 minutes of me in roadside restrooms. Given that it's normally a three-hour trip, this is a significant factor.
Last night, I had another weird dream, though my recollection of this one is more fragmented. This one also had a multimedia element. But instead of Dick and Jane, the vernacular was graphic novels. Specifically Batman as a seventeenth century witchfinder in Dutch Gotham. Which I was apparently scripting or possibly penciling. And another round of trying to find people, of losing track of tasks and belongings and details. Another dream about limitation, with a whiff of escape.
Part of the tribe is coming over this afternoon for what will probably be the final push through my basement. There's a significant number of books to go to Powell's, and my own backstock to be dealt with. Plus general furniture management, tool consolidation, cleaning up, and arranging. I mean, what do I do with my Dad's late 1940's American Flyer train set? He doesn't want it back, and it seems almost criminal to let go of that. And so on and so on. Packing up a life isn't easy.
Disability and Finances
My Short Term Disability claim was formally approved yesterday. Long term claims progress on various fronts, but they all have 3-5 month lead times. I am having to provide exhaustive financial documentation to the financial planners who are helping me sort out my estate planning and the transition for Mother of the Child and
Cancer and Sex
Lisa Costello and I were discussing my libido and my sexuality yesterday. I won't go into details in this post, but may elaborate later under cut in a TMI post. Suffice to say that under the influence of both the illness and the treatments I've shifted in some ways which are probably permanent. It's an interesting transition, viewed intellectually, but is also another form of narrowing and focusing of my life.
I have not had a meaningful argument with my parents since I stopped being a teen-aged asshole. We get along well, and our worldviews overlap substantially enough that there aren't many points of potential critical disagreement. Plus my whole family runs on the same rubric that I do: there isn't enough kindness in the world, so you may as well be nice. However, Dad and I almost got into one this week when talking about finances. Specifically we were discussing how
Dad thinks I'm too negative. So does
But I cannot afford hope. In the course of this disease I have been confronted time and again with circumstances more dire than even my deepest fears. Hope is just a recipe for emotional brutalizing. I always expect the worst these days, and I am rarely disappointed.
This is what keeps me alive.
It's hard for Dad, or my daughter, or many of the other people in my life to understand that attitude. But it's the only way I get out of bed in the morning. Whatever the pathological opposite of denial is, that's what I practice. Here I am.