HAPPY NEW YEAR!  
 

         ЧECTИTA HOBA 2013 ГOДИHA!

                  Bonne Année, Bonne Santé!

                                 CPEЌHA HOBA 2013 ГOДИHA!

I made it up till 11:38 last night, but having watched the ball drop in Times Square, I figured that was good enough.  I did wake up at midnight because a few fireworks were going off, and they upset Kimber, who had been sleeping next to the bed, but I wasn't lucid enough to tell her that it would be ok.  It snowed off and on yesterday, so this morning there are about three inches of snow on the ground, more than we had all of last winter (but not the two horrible winters before that).

I don't usually make New Year's resolutions but here are three for the new year:

1) Not to lose weight. 

2) Not to quit smoking.  There are few enough physical pleasures left, and I'm going to stick with my Camel Wides.

3) To be around a year from now to make resolutions for 2014.

As a new year starts, the cancer remains the most determining and defining part of my life.  It's easy to ignore the cancer itself, since it doesn't really manifest itself in the usual ways.  But I can't quite ignore it, since the consequences of the cancer (and more forcefully the side effects of the treatment) are too numerous to allow for denial.  My left shoulder is much stronger, but I start every morning with the reminder that I can't lift a gallon of milk off the top shelf of the refrigerator with my left arm.  My right hip is also better, and I walk with a cane only when I leave the house, just in case I encounter stairs without a railing.  There's no real pain, but there is discomfort.  I sit too much, and when I stand, I have to push myself up.  There are lots of things I can't do and lots of positions that aren't possible any more.  I've learned to compensate--or rely on Mohamed for help.  But the discomfort is a constant reminder that I'm not the active person I always thought I was.

I'm used to the gray hair, the most immediate and visible effect of the chemo.  And I'm resigned to having to take three additional pills to counter the effects of the chemo that raise my blood pressure.  I tried dropping one of the pills (on the suggestion of my cardiologist), but the blood pressure went right back up again.  The fatigue is more troubling.  I can manage four or five good hours in a row, but then suddenly the tide rolls in, and I cannot stay awake.  If we've got social events or doctors' appointments, I need to plan the sleep around the other activities.  I'm hardly a fun person these days, since even when I'm with friends, no matter how lively the conversation, after about three hours I begin fading.  Luckily, everyone is understanding, especially Mohamed, who must get frustrated with my twice-daily "I have to go to bed"s.

Probably most irritating, however, is my relationship with food.  My appetite (and my enjoyment of food) is severely limited.  Whenever we think we need to go out for lunch or dinner, we run through the usual list of restaurants, bemoan how limited our choices are, and then choose whatever sounds likely to be most appealing.  Once there, uncharacteristically, I change my mind several times since what sounds good one minute quickly loses its appeal.  When whatever I've ordered does arrive, after a few bites, it becomes an ordeal to actually eat the rest.  And then there is the diarrhea that makes going out more problematic.  The Lomotil seems marginally more effective than Imodium.  If, when a see the oncologist next on January 25th, we decide that the Lomotil isn't really a solution, perhaps the insurance company will approve the tincture of opium.  (It's fun to say both 'tincture' and 'opium.') 

I'm sorry to start 2013 with these paragraphs.  I always thought that I was defined by many traits, but however many others there are, it is the cancer and its treatment that now determines much of my routine, many of my decisions. 

On a lighter note: I'm always amazed that while I'm struggling to understand the lyrics of songs on the radio in the car, Mohamed not only understands them, but is singing happily along with them.  But this weekend, TLC's old "Waterfalls" was playing on TV, and Mohamed said that he didn't understand the song.  "Who is Jason Waterfalls?" he asked, thinking for all these years that the words were, "Don't go, Jason Waterfalls."  I felt better.