Cancer Survival,This

a series of firsts

2010-10-07T18:38:00.000-07:00

there is a first time for everything, after you wake up from a coma.

first conversation.

first confrontation.

first quip. first time I stood up for myself.

first book. first revelation. first run on the treadmill. first cold. first day that I cleaned the house.

after that will come first friendships. first jobs. first modicum of respect. first time I can feel excited. first time I sing for an audience. first child.

In the meantime, I'm going to rewatch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 6. Buffy spends the first half trying to figure out how not to feel dead inside. I seem to recall something about stylish yet affordable boots.

waking up from a 20 year coma

2010-08-21T14:07:00.000-07:00

On the heals of writing about my difficulties with employment I decided to take time off work to a) escape my crazy boss and b) get my brain working again. I succeeded on both counts, for the most part.

Of course I'm still working on finding a way to escape my boss while I'm actually at work, but that's a whole other story.

What happened while I was off was that I got in to see a new doctor who specializes in integrated medicine (loosely translated it means he's enough of a kook in the medical field to actually have read up on how to treat me). He agreed to order a 4 point saliva test for me (not covered) which measured my cortisol and DHEA levels. Then he correctly diagnosed what I had suspected: my adrenals are shot. The probably have been for TWENTY. YEARS!

Will someone pls explain to me how this kind of incompetence is possible in a supposedly 'developed ' country like Canada?

So I ordered an OTC adrenal supplement online (not available in Canada) and my doc sent me a prescription for DHEA through the mail. That's right. THE MAIL. No inconvenient second visit necessary or arguments re: how to treat me because a) he did a thorough history and assessment up front and b) HE KNOWS WHAT HE'S DOING.

I have energy. I am up. I am up and about. I speak. I'm almost making sense. I have enthusiasm. The only problem is that I've basically awoken from a twenty year walking coma.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

success and its attributes

2010-07-13T17:33:00.000-07:00

So I've been connecting with ppl I knew in elementary and middle school on Facebook. Never a good idea, I really should know better.

But it doesn't matter really who you connect with. It's always about competition, comparisons, who's winning.

In spite of many of my goals circling the drain, I've never considered the state of my life to be one of failure. The medical system in my country has failed me (not the USA, incidentally). My family has failed me. Many of my friends have failed me. My body has failed me. But I have not failed.

My go-to publication Salon.com published an article by a veterinarian in California who lost enough of her income that she and her family (three kids) had to give up their house in a nice suburb. Yet another house collecting dust somewhere as a casualty of this recession.

At the risk of sounding self-righteous and patronizing, the lessons that Generation X'ers are learning about the loss of their 'stuff' as a result of this recession, I figured out about 2o years ago when I realized that I might be sick enough, long enough, to forego any chance of earning a reasonable income AND not be sick enough to get a disability pension. When everyone in my age group did not 'get' that this was a reality, I realized that I was truly fucked.

So when I could work, and I could get some 'stuff' I loved it. I held onto it. This weekend I went on a camping trip in which I was housed by a 20 year old tent that still keeps me completely dry in a rain storm. But because I earned the letters after my name with financial support that many don't have, this success is dismissed. Because my nearby peers are now raising kids and buying houses instead of cherishing their first tent, I'm seen as pathetic. I know that I get some points for the sweat that it took to work through sickness, but I can't share it with anyone because if word gets out, I'll be unemployable.

Right now, I'm struggling to keep a job. I changed careers and work with ppl who are NOT exactly socially literate or compassionate in the face of someone who is struggling. My cognitive problems (while manageable, and don't affect my performance) now affect how I can 'fit in' to an organization, whereas before I could 'out' myself as having learning difficulties and be admired for my ability to compensate. I'm also getting older, so I should have accomplished more by now (middle management, at least). But after my career change (I needed a job less prone to burnout), I have been ousted from jobs three times, only to be replaced by someone who probably a) doesn't work as hard as I do b) doesn't appreciate what they have as much as I do and c) doesn't understand health care as much as I do (I work in the health industry).

Does this mean I have failed? I can't stayed employed, I don't have kids (couldn't raise them if I had them), I barely have a social life, I can't convince my doctors to provide the health care I need, nearly everyone who ever cared about me either a) is alienated from me or b) is using me as a competitive marker to boost their own status in life c) my sister and mother were charming addicts who have spread rumours and lies about me that have turned my family against me.

Am I attracting all of this crap into my life? I am the bottom line here right? Well hells no.

Ignorance is the bottom line here. Striving is the bottom line. Apathy. Jealousy. Did I mention ignorance?

I didn't fuck up. I have survived, I have persevered, I have been patient with the health system beyond all words and comprehension. I have landed a nice man who used to play bass in a band and can pull off horned rimmed glasses with a receding hairline. And still, I have to deal with ppl who don't have a fucking clue what I've been through, trying to fuck my life up even more.

Fortunately I got a couple of weeks off work to breathe (unpaid, of course).

and. And. AND. I have an appt. with a doctor who knows what they're doing in November.

(I know it's been said before but I'll say it again. the authors of The Secret can suck it).

still sick after all these years

2010-07-12T15:23:00.000-07:00

Today was eventful.

Got up. Late for doctor number one's appt. (missed bus). Got lectured by doctor number one in doctor number one's office about being late and why I should listen to the specialist she sent me to who may change my meds (you know, the ones that actually make me feel better).

Uncontrollably broke down in doctor number one's office wailing 'when am I EVER going to get the health care I need?' Got note to be off work for two weeks (unpaid of course). Doctor agrees to read literature I left her and refer me to another specialist.

Same day, get call from doctor number 2 (had left desperate message with doctor number 2 a week ago to plead to be taken on as a patient and forgot about it - memory lapses are clearly a defense mechanism). Doctor number 2 actually provides care I need, meaning he prescribes dessicated thyroid for my hypothyroidism and assesses for adrenal fatigue using the cortisol salivary test (surprisingly uncommonly used in a major city in Canada).

Trying to be strong, but appointment with doctor number 2 isn't until November. Trying to figure out how to live off hubby's salary for 4 months without burning through savings too much.

Neurofeedback appt. is tomorrow, and I'm going twice a week now. Hopefully this will quickly put me back on a healing path.

I'm the only person I know who gets sicker from going on vacation because she's left her safety net, then needs to take more time off to recover from vacation.

(This has been a rank and file report). Days like this are all too common.

impervious to suffering

2010-06-19T01:19:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am.

Oprah once stole a great question from Gene Siskel, which is "what do you know for sure". Most of the time, I know absolutely nothing for sure. I'm far too malleable for my own good. What I can say is that something that I know sometimes, is that writing can be good for me.

When I stopped posting to this blog a few years ago, the way I was experiencing the 'writing process' for posting some intensely personal thoughts to a virtual and public space became negative for me. I started a blog to document what I consider to be injustices in my life that other ppl may be running into as well, but wasn't necessarily interested in cultivating readership so much as cultivating my way of expressing and presenting what I must go through day to day.

Getting the same response that I do in my day to day life (namely, sympathy or nothing) sucked more than I had thought it would. More to the point, it triggered symptoms of PTSD (being ignored and abandoned being triggers for me).

I finally found some therapy for my PTSD that works (neurofeedback - whole other post).

The point of today's post is to pose this question:

How is it with North American culture that we have created a species of human so incapable of digesting pain and suffering in a meaningful way? The social construction of sucky and life obliterating shit in the public sphere is so white washed and IMO, leads ppl to believe that skirting and avoiding individuals who are clearly suffering and in need of support is an okay life choice, justifing a 'fuck them, I have to look out for myself' attitude. (See also: Oprah).

My husband-to-be has met me, loves me, lives with me, and has signed up for the long haul. He's one of the few who has looked at my mess of a life and thought 'she seems cool, and I can handle that shit, so we're good'. Unlike the usual 'she seems cool, but wow - too much crap to deal with. buh-bye'. I include almost all my family members in category #2. Most of his family members fall into category #1.

"So what's the deal with them" I asked myself. Well, I'm glad I asked. I think it's a skill set situation. In that, his parents are both hearing impaired. They too deal with all kinds of ignorance and crap every day and are vulnerable to attack. They get the importance of forming your own community and sticking by each other as a buffer to those attacks. Future hubby isn't hearing impaired himself, but a) gets their need for community b) gets that it's not cool for him to exploit them and c) thinks nothing of forgoing the need to 'have fun' to be their for the people in his life who he loves - call it sacrifice or not, to him supporting ppl with vulnerabilities is no sweat, because he has a skill set for it.

The rest of the world - not so much. You'll note in this article that even the 'disgusted' ppl still felt the need to run with and lament what is a socially constructed label that was laid on an infant (about as voiceless a creature as they come). Disability = burden. Case closed.

As someone who has been written off due to chronic PTSD I'd like to say this. With therapy and respect, I'm not a burden to anyone. The ignorance I face every day however is a tremendous burden to me. Please knock that shit off.

the absurdity of two years of chemical toxification

2007-04-08T18:02:00.000-07:00

I just read in Heather Havrilesky's latest Salon column that people who've been heavily drugged can't stop from blathering about it afterward. This was stated in reference to having had an epidural.

It's completely true and achingly astute.

How many times have I wondered how to explain to ppl that 2 1/2 years of chemotherapy isn't something that you put behind you, but is more like an unruly roommate that moved in and is immune to all forms of eviction, no matter how many notices you put up or the plethora of threatening letters your lawyer writes or the umpteen trips to your Member of Parliament you make to lobby for legislative change.

Chemotherapy has entered your life and opened up new forms of susceptibility and limitations that you never could have envisioned.

i'm stupid now

2006-12-21T16:40:00.000-08:00

chemo brain may just get the best of me yet.

my conversational skills are for shit. the chances of me ever being a desirable social option for anyone under any circumstances is untenable.

lately I've been wondering who I would have been without being made a disabled freak before I had a chance to become something else. anything else of any note whatsoever.

i really think I would have been someone interesting and worth having around.

i really do.

giving testimony

2006-12-21T16:35:00.000-08:00

I figure that most who would read this blog would consider me to be a whiner.

First of all, fuck them.
Second of all, I don't.

Give your testimony. Injustice is the real cancer. Restorative justice may not be the cure, but it helps to heal the deeply scarred and forgotten.

open letter to my father at christmas time

2006-12-18T08:20:00.000-08:00

I recently had to debase myself and ask my father for a loan to pay for a Speech Language Pathologist. Despite my Canadian address, rehabilitation for cancer survivors is not paid for by the government. They'll be happy to save your body, but to hell with your life!!

(Someday I'll tell you about how my father's wife once told me that not only do I NOT deserve financial support for my disabilities, but that I should pay the government back for my cancer treatment. She wasn't even trying to insult me ... she actually believed this drivel.)

My father thinks that my reports about late effects are lies.
(umm, New England Journal of Medicine?)

Here's an email I'm working on to send him (if only ...):

(deleted ...)

And, scene!

on losing your dignity

2006-11-22T09:08:00.000-08:00

So at the risk of geeking myself up, I recently became a huge fan of Battlestar Galactica (okay - I was a fan of the old show too).

Last episode, Colonel Tigh (the resident SOB) comes out with an spot on speech about the worst aspect of being 'played' - that being the loss of your dignity.

And I quote, (well, paraphrase): "The worst part of being played is losing your dignity. You wind up feeling too worthless to continue to suck in the oxygen that you're breathing. In time you start to love it [feeling worthless] - it's like a bottle that never runs dry."

This Cancer Survival has been a losing battle against regaining my dignity or any amount of social station in life that might not leave me feeling completely worthless most of the time. It often does feel similar to the force that addiction has over the psyche. I don't believe that it is an addiction though. "I'm worthless" is just what you have to tell yourself in order not to completely crack up in the face of being treated as though you're dispensable by your own famiy. I can more easily do something about my being worthless than I can about the rest of the world being self-centered assholes - at least that's what you keep telling yourself.

It's an illusion of course. There's nothing to be done about either. And I'm not actually worthless, BTW.

What there is to do, is pretend that you're not broken as best you can. And bit by bit, you try to make sense of the crushing sense of hatred and rejection that you now have had the experience of sitting in. Try to keep it at bay as best you can - but that's an illusion too.

Fuck.

risk of suicide

2006-10-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

The CBC posted an article today about the increased risk of suicide in cancer patients.

When I was 18 and about a year into treatment, my mother was using heavily and was ranting one (of many) nights. My dad just pretended to sleep through it and left me to deal with it. My sister was out. To make a long story short, continuing treatment at that point seemed kind of ridiculous.

late effects - the sharper side of the double edged sword

2006-10-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

More commentary on the October 12, 2006 issue of the
New England Journal of Medicine. As I briefly mentioned in a previous post, this issue includes study results and commentary on the late effects of childhood cancer treatment.

This is the most comprehensive study complete thus far, with over 10000 cancer survivors included. It is heartening to finally see an admission in the medical community that life isn't always rosy for cancer survivors. I'll be most happy when it's aptly deemed completely inappropriate for health professionals (or anyone else) to tell survivors that 'they should be just grateful to be alive', when often what they've been given could not by normal standards be called 'a life'.

In the "Focus on Research" commentary, Dr. Philip M. Rosoff, MD notes that the evidence of the significance of these effects is "worrisome news." (Rosoff, 2006).

For childhood cancer survivors, it isn't news at all. I have been reporting my late effects to oncologists since 1990, and was routinely dismissed. The impact the cognitive "sequelae" has had on my life has been devastating. My family still treat me as 'the malingerer'- once you get a lable like that, which was slapped on me nearly two decades ago by the doctors who were supposed to be caring for me, they stick. Needless to say, our relationship is also devastating most of the time because they can't get past the guilt of their mistake - acknowledging that I was right all along would force them to face them to deal with it.

My problem is that in the grand scheme of 'late effects', on the available measurable tests I didn't fare too badly. On the surface, my physical appearance is fine (my thyroid and arthritis joints are another matter). However, I have to live with what you don't see and won't acknowledge because it's 'awkward' ... such as the reality of how ppl treat me once they figure out I'm a bit 'slow' and socially inept - after that, just call me a walking target. (BTW, on average I'd say it takes 1-3 conversations, only 1 if I'm in a group situation - then it's about 1-3 seconds).

After that, I'm forever deemed
1) the dummy ppl have around to make themselves feel smarter!
2) the loser ppl have around to make their slow social calendars seem fuller
3) the patsy you use when you need a stupid errand run that no one else will do.
4) the 'knob' who doesn't get any jokes. any.
5) the 'normal' looking cancer survivor whom oncologists can add to their ego bank.

What category of late effect would that fall under? Unfortunately, as comprehensive as the NEJM article is, there is no mention of the social fallout.

social capital

2006-10-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

when you're chronically ill for 17 years, social capital becomes very scarce.

bodily breakdown

2006-10-12T15:35:00.000-07:00

i was diagnosed in 1989.

in 1990 i started telling my oncologists about the late effects that were affecting me due to the chemotherapy.

they didn't listen. at all.

i wouldn't shut up about it. then, when i got depressed about being neglected and ignored by the very ppl who were responsible for my care, those very ppl started sending me to psychiatrists, who said that the issues i was having with my oncologists wasn't his 'department'.

what should he care? he wouldn't have had a patient to bill anymore if the social issues had been addressed. he couldn't have continued to pad the bank accounts of Big Pharma to ply me with those anti-depressants that f*&cked me up for years.

Guess what?
It wasn't all in my head - and the New England Journal of Medicine knows it too.

skills, not pills

2006-05-18T15:22:00.000-07:00

I recently subscribed to the feed for The Splintered Mind - a smart take on what it's like to live life with ADHD. His post today inspired the title for my post, and he shares my opinion on the dangers of using medication instead of skills training.

Given my own neurological, let's call it 'situation', which is in large part due to the 2+ years of chemotherapy that I had 15 years ago (intravenous and intrathecal), but also partly due to my innate neurological makeup which I believe had ADD/ADHD aspects when I was a kid (meaning I was ADHD and got neurologically affected even more ... rock on) I have a tendency to write run on sentences, and I've checked out many a solution to deal with my neurological 'situation'.

skills, not pills refers to the cognitive rehabilitation I've been doing over the past three years (which I recently finished!! Yay!).

The rehab involed completing a series of repetitive exercises designed to create or enhance basic neurological skills: attention, working memory, integration, ability to take perspective, metacognition. The first effects of the rehab that I've noticed has been an increase in my capacity to manage my emotions. Today in particular, I was grateful for the work I've done in the program; I was in the middle of a meltdown ( BTW I've also been suffering from PTSD, but those details can wait for another post) . So the meltdown usually involves tears, tears and more tears stemming from an uncontrollable slew of highly critical, demeaning and irrational thoughts that seem to be directly plugged into my fight or flight response.

Today, after I had removed myself from the situation I was in and wandered around in meltdown mode, I came across a lone chair, slightly askew, facing a large window. After I sat down, still being electrocuted by the thoughts shooting madly through my synapses, a stray thought slipped in amongst the ranting that said (warning, cheesy material coming) 'have compassion'. My solar plexus filled with warmth immediately. The electrical storm turned into sunspot in my chest. The meltdown stopped in its tracks, so I fanned my eyes and went back to class. Liberation was mine, baby.

I should tell you, that of course I know there's more to the change than just the neurocognitive skills. Meditation and support from my 'personal brain trainer' were also big factors. But I know that throughout the course the training I did this year, I slowly came to experience being in 'the moment'. To bodily feel the effects of meaning in real time, rather than hours or days or months after the fact.

There's still a ways to go with my rehab (I may shorten that to 'hab). My ability to comprehend the 'gestalt' of situations isn't quite there yet. Nor is being as cheery as I'd like. Nor standing my ground, to organizing my thoughts and expressing in real time a solid opinion based on studied knowledge, these are accomplishments still waiting in the wings.

After this meltdown stopper today, I'm much more hopeful. And the warmth in my chest it's making itself at home; it's thawing out at last.

A list, B list, Your list, My list

2006-05-03T12:09:00.000-07:00

I know that socially, I'm not on anyone's A list, B list, C list. I'm on the D list.

The D list is for disabled, dork, don't call them, don't pick up the phone when they call.
I know that friendships will not be initiated with me, or maintained by anyone other than me.

These are what my lists look like:

A list - you accept that I have disabilities but don't pity me for them. You find a place in your life for me where my dignity and self-respect isn't threatened and maligned. You pick up the phone to call me and see how I am once in a while.

B list - you accept my calls, but keep me in a niche and hide the rest of your life from me. You rarely call me. You occasionally try to tell me that you're not ignoring me.

C list - I've known you for a long time, and keep you in my life in case I'm desperate and alone.

D list - You're related to me and are incredibly childish. I keep you in my life so I can have contact with my history.

exploitation

2006-04-30T06:14:00.000-07:00

The bad
Since I was a teenager, most of the limited attention I possess was devoted to the plethora of crap I had to do to survive, to keep a grip in the face of my reality being erased by those who refused to acknowledge what I was going through - and I barely succeeded at times, and failed dismally others.

Family, friends, health professionals ignored and dismissed my very real and painful experience of my being vulnerable to exploitation, while simultaneously exploiting my vulnerabilities to manipulate me into believing much of the time that I wasn't vulnerable. (Yes, this head game was brought to you by your taxpayer). I was then freely available to be a crutch on which they could prop up their reputations and egos .

"we saved your life with no side effects - aren't we fabulous people (bah - fabulous martyrs ) for still putting up with you and all your imaginary complaints - the imaginary complaints about your memory, attention and focus that we use against you, to give us the edge we need to dismiss your complaints about memory, attention and focus ... "

The good
Going to have to think about this one ... (I will deliver - please bear with the slow thinker that is me.)

cancer memory

2006-04-29T15:16:00.000-07:00

From Whence I Came:
A few years ago, I moved to a new city, partly with a new life/career/city/school plan, partly with the intent to escape the trap of an oncology clinic I was in; I desperately needed follow up care for the chronic late-effect monkey on my back that no one in the adult oncology unit would acknowledge.

The first oncologist I met with at the new clinic looked over my protocol and promptly dismissed my late effects concerns, saying that I should have 'no side effects'" based on the gallizion drugs that were pumped through my veins - absolute rubbish. Back on the merry-go-round to demoralization I was. It's sad to say that so goes most of my encounters with anyone who I try to tell about late effects.

To Where I Landed:
Last week I gave a 3rd try at finding a decent disability counsellor at the institution of higher learning that attend. I show up at the appointment with the feeling of dread that accompanies these kind of prior negative experiences - the one where there is a firewall between the truth of your experience and the person who is listening to you.

The first two counsellors lived on that planet of neverneverland - no doubt they are neighbours of my former oncologist who, as his first act as the planetary government leader, deemed self-delusion an acceptable professionl practice.

And Now I Am Here:
So there I am, checked in at the appointment desk, feeling anxious and jumpy, easily threatened and irked, my injustice red-flag-o-meter on high alert. I'm delayed because the counsellor is on the phone. Argh. Next, a woman comes along and buts in front of me and into the counsellor's office. Grrrrr. (now you're expecting me to find a moment of zen, right). So I do - I get up and walk out.

I go for some cheap but flavoured coffee, and seriously consider blowing the appointment off - until I remember that the psychiatrist who did my ADHD evaluation thought that a "referral summary" consisted of revealing all the nitty-gritty of my life history on paper (I made this discovery while getting documentation for my tax write-offs - ADHD is the closest legitimate dx I can land on in order to get services and write off my hefty out of pocket expenses).

So back I go to at least retrieve the offensive document. Now I'm 20 minutes late and I've been rude to the nice library technician who tried to embargo my coffee. (Why would I get coffee when I'm jumpy you ask ... that's another chapter for the section on "cancer and you: your guide to the effective use of addictive substances").

Despite my immature and spiteful lateness, the counsellor sees me. And I have one of those moments that I've been having more and more often as of late.

And Here I'll Stay:
She's fabulous.

She's respectful, sharp, knowledgeable, not the least bit bloated with 'power-over'. Instantly she knew that chemotherapy's effect on memory, concentration and focus is well documented.

Phew. The usual helping professional induced panic attack averted - an actual possibility for rehabilitative progress arrives. Order is restored to the universe for a fleeting moment.

cancer fatigue

2006-04-29T14:44:00.000-07:00

I've already mentioned a bitchin' cancer book that I came across recently - After Cancer.

Of much of the literature that's been published on cancer survival, this is the first I've seen that actually gives a name to an often disbelieved and ignored late effect ... the kind of disbelief that approaches scorn gets levelled at survivors who are labouring under the ongoing fatigue that persists and persists and persists past the end of treatment.

It is called Cancer Fatigue. Now you know.

cancer rage

2006-04-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

I've read over a few of my earlier posts and my rage and bitterness at the aftermath of my cancer experience is clear. Removing a couple of them is a possibility - I'm not sure if censoring that experience is necessary, nor am I convinced that spewing venom is the expression most befitting.

It is real and honest, and uncomfortable and off-putting as they are, for now they stay.

This experience is with me every moment.

2006-03-12T05:57:00.000-08:00

Only despite the lovely and annoying array of qualities this experience has bestowed upon me, they're incidental.

Meaning, as much as ppl say that my contributions to the world are valued, no one really wants to admit what they really think. That's just something you all say to make yourself feel better about being afraid of being damaged yourselves.

Fortunately, this can be quantified by lack of income and number of childhood cancer survivors who are forced to live with their parents their entire lives. No one know what happens when their parents die - the earliest survivors aren't old enough yet. 5-10 years from now we will.

Cancer is not a a gift. I'm ready for my blue pill now.

the media

2006-02-28T16:35:00.000-08:00

May 22, 2006

Images of cancer survivors in the media - tragic hero, inspirational mentor, bald, runner of marathons.

There's more unpalatable stuff to the story. Duh.

I'm just supposed to be grateful to be alive, right?

2006-02-28T15:45:00.000-08:00

And just who are you to tell me what I should be grateful for?

Since Felicity Huffman gave Lesley Stahl her deservedly lauded 2 cents on the you must love motherhood 24/7 ridiculousness, I'm going to put the cancer survival must equal eternal gratitude absurdity to rest as well.

Okay, done - I can check that off my list of things to do.

Clip courtesy of Salon.com.
Just click on it and play the ad - it'll take two seconds and won't hurt a bit.

You just want me to be like who I was.

2006-02-28T15:44:00.000-08:00

Well I fucking can't. So stop expecting it.
I'm tired enough for chrissakes without the added pressure.

How to cope with 15 years of abandonment by the publicly funded Paediatric Oncology Follow up Program that was down the hall the whole time

2006-02-28T08:02:00.000-08:00

I like lists. In chronologically descending order:

engage in some soft alcoholism (meaning: if you lean toward hard liquor, make it something fruity)
denial
submit to their ridiculous and continual insistences that you're fine, there's nothing wrong with you, and if there is, well it's probably 'psychiatric' and no concern of theirs, because it wouldn't do anything for their fundraising initiatives given that you're not bald anymore (Mar 1, 2006 correction: I'm in the adult system: Fundraising? What fundraising?)
give the psychiatric route a shot, and while you're there, get the full-on psych experience of having your life ruined for years in a plethora of demented ways. to get the authentically fucked up experience, your care must be delivered in either a) a soft spoken tone of voice or b) a stern (but fatherly) tone of voice. nod, listen, then drink in the infantilization of your 'self'.
completely dissociate yourself from bodily sensations, so that you can cope with the whale-swallowing psychic suffering by living in a self-induced stasis, and then try to pretend like you're not stumbling around this earth in abject confusion&revulsion and bouncing off other people like they're the personification of a perfectly made bed. [that's right - for me leaving my house feels as it would for you to leap into the pages of Martha Stewart Living.]
reconnect with said abandoned bodily sensations, and enjoy the freaky experience for as long as humanly possible
read A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius, and then follow that with a carefully selected diet of McSweeney's, in order to better develop your inherent (but almost lost) sardonic sense of humour
hire a fucking good lawyer
hope that someday you'll be able to read McSweeney's longer than 30 seconds at a go
cut yourself slack as often as required
schedule regular times to sadly shake your head at the ignorance of healthy people who mean well, but don't know what the fuck they're talking about
read good books that have useful info, like After Cancer by Wendy Schlessel Harpham
kiss your cat
grieve often and large those chunks of time spent being hopelessly naive

16 and a half years and counting

2006-02-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

I had cancer in 1989 for a couple of months.
Then I had chemo for a couple of years. So here I am, still breathing
(if nothing else).

My life post-cancer has been interesting.

So I thought I'd start blogging about it.
The experience did quite a number on me.

It fucking sucked.
(There will be no clouds or bubbles or sermons on being positive on this blog).