Did I actually move to Joniopolis? Or did Joniopolis just sort of spot me in the distance and then flow over me like sneaky lava, just because my name was Joni?
Because something weird is going on here, and it isn't just having to have chemo. WHICH, by the way, is the very, bottom, last item you should put on your bucket list.
You'd think having cancer and then chemo would be plenty of holiday cheer, right? But no. I had to BEGIN chemo right smack on February 14th, the day of hearts and roses, love and chocolate. You look up irony in the dictionary, and there is a photo of me on that day, hooked up to an infusion tube leading to a port in my chest.
This port looks like a Lego buried under the skin (make that purple and green skin) and it looks like a tiny jack-in-the-box which, if presented with enough Pop-Goes-the-Weasel music, might suddenly burst open to reveal a creepy little clown.
But this is not all. Are you kidding? You think Joniopolis would end right here? No, the nurse who has to infuse my little jack-in-the box notices that I'm pretty swollen (NO KIDDING) and leaves to get A LONGER NEEDLE. That's right, A LONGER NEEDLE.
What are we talking, here, a knitting needle? No; just an inch-long one since the standard 3/4 inch one is too short. This is exactly like meeting some shady guy in a dark alley and having him say, "Hang on-- I need a longer knife."
Oh, by all means, get the proper tools in order. We don't want to skimp at at time like this! So now I sit there and await my stabbing -- which I will later learn is the rock bottom least of my worries-- but at least I can reflect upon a grand gesture this morning. My hilarious kids gave me a humongous bouquet that says, "Happy Chemo-Tines' Day."
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