Running Topless Through Fields of Machetes

For levity. A brief excerpt from my soon-to-be-finished book.

Addressing the elephant: To be completely transparent, some of you have noticed I’m not moving quite the same—and you’re right.

For those who are aware of my cancer diagnosis, thank you for the advice, book suggestions, and survival tips. This has been a whirlwind, and it means so much to have support.

That said, the title for this book and chapter of life: “Running Topless Through Fields of Machetes.” Because WOW, I was not prepared for what was under those bandages. The girls have done their “duty,” so to speak, and it’s not like they were here to impress me, but yikes.

And I can’t even be an extra in a slasher flick, because I’d have to be topless and my grandmothers would roll in their graves. Prudence be damned.

Next, “chemo fatigue” is very real. If you’ve ever seen a sloth cross the road, it’s real-time footage of me trying to do literally anything. This part is exceptionally annoying, as I am not a “spa girl”—I’m a “gym girl”—so this is a complete 180 from the daily-workout person I used to be.

Oh, and it’s not “brain fog,” it’s more like a brain marsh. My thoughts arrive in fragments, memory recall is on dial-up, and my normally robust vocabulary has been reduced to “uhm” and “you know.” On-camera interviews are therefore a thrill.

I open cupboards and drawers—hell, open doors—like I’m in an escape room. Lost car keys… oh, who am I kidding—lost entire cars. Who loses a whole-ass car? This girl. The parking lot security fella told me to come back anytime, so I’ve got that going for me.

And when they say, “eat whatever you can get down,” that’s a big fat lie. Huge. What they actually mean is, “eat like a gentle Victorian ghost.” If you eat high-fat foods or starchy carbs, your digestive system slams on the brakes, reverses, and attempts a U-turn back to daylight.

Since I have never experienced heartburn before now: “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.” Apparently, blue cheese, sparkling water, peanut-butter gluten-free toast, and chips with queso and citrus salsa equal “Snack-Induced Esophageal Homicide.”

Last week, I DoorDashed Prevacid, Pepcid, and Gaviscon at midnight, which I then proceeded to chug from the bottle as the teaspoons plotted against me and went into hiding. Jerks. What can I say—nothing motivates a woman like esophageal arson. And the DoorDash guy is my new bestie; he knew this was a five-alarm situation.

Oh, and as someone who cooks most meals, I’m the very last person on earth to discover DoorDash—but being an introvert, y’all may never see me in real life again. Ha!

Also, “deep bone pain” has got to be the understatement of the century. I’m consuming ibuprofen, Tylenol, and Claritin like they’re movie-theater candy (within prescribed limits). So far, it’s been four months of feeling like my bones are made of Christmas-ornament glass and they’re all about to shatter.

Thankfully, I tried acupuncture and had success. And yes, it seems counterintuitive to be in this much pain and then ask someone to stab you with a bunch of needles. But hell, I’ll try anything once—or twice… okay, three times, just to be certain.

Anyway, being a woman is wild. The hormone that helps keep us youthful and fertile becomes the thing that tries to unalive us as we age, so after all this chemo I get to have my fun parts taken out “just to be safe.” On the silver-linings side, this means I don’t have to do five years of drugs to keep “Evil Estrogen” from putting me in an early grave… but it’s yet another surgery.

As a chronic optimist and hope-based person, rest assured these em dashes aren’t going anywhere and I refuse to wallow. This is the best shot at longevity—so a “Yeet My Ute” party it is!

Meanwhile, as men age, they get “more distinguished,” and some even get younger wives. WTF. Now I understand The Golden Girls.

Thank you again for all the support. Onward. 🩷

— TWH

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