How're you doing? you ask.  I can't complain.  I remember writing those last three words a couple of times in earlier blogs.  But, of course, I do complain--at least in my head.  Maybe it's time to do it outloud.  It's too early to be a grinch stealing Christmas.  And it's too late to ruin Thanksgiving.  So here are some things I'm not thankful for.

I'm not thankful for all the discomfort that has followed the surgery on my right leg.  I was incredibly naive; I thought that it would be like a hip replacement and that after a little therapy, I'd be as good as new.  But none of the bone in the top half of my femur was salvageable; it's pure titanium for the top several inches and plastic for the ball joint of the hip.  There was no bone left for the muscles to attach to, so they had to be artificially attached to the titanium and plastic.  I don't mind the slight limp or having to carry a cane when I leave the house.  And there's not really pain.  But if I sit in the same position for very long, the discomfort makes itself known.  To stand up, I have to put down whatever is in my hand, and push myself up using at least one hand.  Every set of stairs requires a deep breath before I take the first step.  Getting dressed or undressed involves sitting down, standing up, sitting down, standing up--one item at a time.  Putting on my right sock is an ordeal.  I can't cut the toenails on my right foot.  When I had the surgery, we had an Altima coupe.  I loved the car, but getting in and out was a nightmare.  The lease was up in August of 2011, and we ventured out in the Kansas heat to search for a new car that would be more comfortable--one dealership a day.  We leased a Toyota Venza, the biggest car I've ever had.  The seat is ass level, so I can just sit down on it.  What I can't do is get my right leg in the car by itself.  Every time I have to use my hand to haul it in.  I realize that this is hardly a major problem, but on each occasion it seems like a small symbol of frustration.

I'm not thankful for all the stomach problems caused by the chemo--or by the new meds I take (three blood pressure pills, for example) to combat the side effects of the chemo, all with their own side effects.  Food and drink are no longer sources of pleasure.  I rarely have much appetite, and even when I do, after a few bites, I've lost my taste for whatever I'm eating.  I no longer enjoy wine--or even Diet-Coke.  At least, I get my eight glasses of water a day.  The frequent bouts of diarrhea are really debilitating.  They're both physically and psychologically exhausting--and potentially embarrassing.  I can't leave the house without taking a couple of Imodiums, and I always have some with me.  Many days I don't leave the house at all.  I'd like to find a cause-and-effect between what I eat and its consequences, but after 18 months, I've given up the search.  Thai food, which I love, seems to be (usually) just fine.  Mexican food, as anyone more rational than I am should know, is (usually) disastrous.  Sushi is my fallback; it always looks and tastes good.  I can eat it at my own pace since I don't have to worry about its getting cold, and it is fresh and cooling.  Still, three or four sushi dinners a week is probably enough for anyone.  Other than that, however, what doesn't have unfortunate effects one day doesn't work the next.  For a long time, I was successful in avoiding nausea, usually a common side effect of chemo.  That's changed lately, and I find myself with my head in the sink having the "dry heaves."  I've got yet another pill that calms my stomach down and is also, according to the label, effective against schizophrenia, just in case the voices that I hear aren't coming from the TV.  It generally works well, but what it can't do once the nausea has passed is give me an appetite.

I'm not thankful for the constant bouts of fatigue.  I always write the blog first thing in the morning, because that's when I have the most energy.  Then, maybe four hours after I've taken the chemo, I crash.  If I have to, I can power my way through the first bout, but whether I have or not, I will always need to sleep for a couple of hours after lunch.  It's not a choice; it's not a power nap, or any other kind.  It's a sudden black curtain that descends.  The fatigue organizes my day.  I'm a gregarious person, and visitors or lunches out are always energizing for me.  But I know that those good hours are going to be followed by the crash.  When you've always thought of yourself as energetic and independent, the fatigue, especially when complicated by the diarrhea, causes a whole new sense of self--and not one that I like very much.  Instead of my personality being a mosaic--or hodgepodge--of many characteristics, living-with-cancer seems to have taken over as the boss of all the others.

I'm not thankful that travel is out.  I'm not thankful that driving is a rarity these days. 

Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch.  Let's hope it's out of my system for a while.  When I started writing this, there was an ad on TV supporting the Wounded Veterans Project.  What the veterans in the commercial were struggling to overcome was so much more serious than anything I've mentioned here that I felt guilty about continuing.  But continue I did.  Otherwise, cancer shmancer, abi gesund!