You read that right. I feel like having a BMX (not a bike, people, that's a bilateral mastectomy). I've gotten to the stage where I'm READY and RARING TO GO for this thing. I have 5 weeks left to wait, but if they called me this afternoon and said "you know, Mrs. Isenberg, we'd like to bring you in on Friday" I'd say "let me check my itinerary . . . um . . . alright!" 'cause I'm over anticipating, planning and preparing. I'm over worrying about any little thing that might go wrong. I just need to live this thing and see what happens for me, you know?
It happened during Cancer Round I, too. It's an official stage in the cancer game. Then it was chemo that I was really dreaded. I had the B-movie chemo experience in my head, and had read too much on the 'net. I was getting the "red devil" pumped into my veins and I envisioned myself on the bathroom floor, the whole in-front-of-the-toilet kinda thing. For hours. Puking guts out. I was so nervous about it that I felt sick to my stomach just thinking about it. But I had a start date, December 12, 2001, and as the day drew near I got more and more anxious to play ball . . . just hook me up to that IV, dammit! And you know what? I never, ever puked. Zofran is my friend. I could feel bad things going on in my gut, and I was wiped, but I never, ever puked.
So let's play, Mr. Cancer. Let's rendezvous at my home-away-from-home, ye olde MGH. Let's see what you've done this time. Let's implant those sacks of water and rebuild the machine. Let's lay low, take precautions, play by the rules for a while. 'Cause you know what? Once I'm done with all this mishigas I'm going back to kickin' ass and takin' names. You've held me back for far too long, already, you bastard.