Cancer, shmancer, abi gesund.  Roughly, cancer, shmancer, as long as you're healthy.  On the one hand, the phrase is dark humor---ignorance or denial or defense.  On the other, however, it's an accurate description of how my days go and how I react to what's going on.  The cancer is there, and it's doing whatever it is that cancers do.  Every morning I take my chemo pills, I get my anti-coagulant shot, I swallow more pills to counteract the effects of the chemo treatment--and that's about all that I can do.  Cancer/shmancer--there's not much more to think about.  Well, of course, there is, but I can't really spend every day contemplating mortality.

What does influence my days more directly is whether I'm feeling healthy or not, whether it's a good day or a bad day.  I start every day with a handful of pills washed down with OJ, a bowl of cereal, and several cups of coffee.  (For some reason, my kidneys seem to be working better with the tumor than they did before: instead of one cup of coffee = one trip to the bathroom, I can drink several cups with no effect.)  Then I have to wait for two to three hours before I can take the chemo.  I plunk myself down in my Archie Bunker chair equipped with a special pillow with a cutout for the back of my tuches.  On a table to the left are my Kindle and my laptop; on the piano at the left are my tablet, my cell, and the remote control.  Mohamed gives me my once-a-day shot in my stomach after we try to remember which side gets it today.  And it's then that I have the most energy I'll have all day.  I blog and do e-mails and watch "Morning Joe" or "Up with Chris Hayes."  After 2 1/2 hours, I take the chemo pills, and then I have to wait for another hour before I can eat.  Although my appetite comes and goes at other times of the day, since I know I have to wait for another hour, it's then that I'm sure to get hungry.

Next comes showering, and suddenly I'm exhausted.  Something I've done every morning for all of my adult life has become an ordeal.  After the shower, I text Mohamed if he's at school, just to let him know I haven't fallen ("and can't get up"--or "can't reach my drink," as we used to joke).  As one of the therapists said, a fall would be "a catastrophe."  Getting dressed in my uniform, which consists of sweats, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, is also time consuming.  The hardest part is putting on my right sock.  If I'm not going out, it's a ankle-high white sock, which is easier to put on, but if I'm going out, I want a longer sock so that I don't cross my legs and expose a skinny, white, hairless shin.  I have to remember to put my left arm in the shirt first because the left shoulder is sore, and it hurts to try to fit it in second.  Through all of this, I have to keep standing up and sitting down because I can't stand on one leg.  I've become aware that I make little groaning sounds every time I stand up, sit down, climb stairs, hear my stomach grumble, or just feel like it.  That must be extremely irritating to Mohamed (I could do all these things without the groan, I'm sure), though he's never said anything.

And then it's time to face the day ahead.  Somehow I never get bored; there's always something to read or something mindless to watch on TV.  But what's always present is an awareness of whether this is a good day or one that's not so good.  I know I'm going to take a nap or two.  It's not a choice; suddenly my mind and body shut down.  The doctors are very casual about this: of course, you get tired.  You're fighting cancer, taking daily chemo, and taking three blood pressure meds to counter the effects of the chemo.  And if I have to, I can fight through the fatigue for awhile.  Much worse is the diarrhea, which is completely unpredictable, except that it's a constant threat. I love going out for lunch or dinner, but I always take an extra Imodium before I go out and am aware of restroom locations in all restaurants.  (TMI?)   And nothing is more debilitating than a day like yesterday when I didn't dare leave the house.  One of my oldest friends called when I was napping, but I didn't have the energy to call back, and what was there to say except to recount my G-I troubles?  Not exactly a charming conversation.

It's my "new normal," as they say.  Cancer, shmancer--not much more I can do about that; abi gesund--now that's what really counts.