I know I said I’d get back to listing things and attempting
to be clever as soon as I was done with Blog Wars, and I told myself I wouldn’t
use this space to bitch and moan about my private life, but sometimes life
hands you such a massive batch of lemons you can’t help but gaze in awe of the
shittiness of it all.



Today we had a meeting at work where they told us that our department is
officially going bye-bye. We don’t have an exact date, and I’m actually very
happy that they took it upon themselves to tell us. We’ve seen this coming for
some time, and should’ve all had the time to prepare at least a little. They
even pointed us towards other jobs within the company we could apply for.



So I went to work applying for those jobs, feverishly determined to beat all my
good friends to the punch. Every man for himself, you scurvy sons of bitches.



Then my fucking phone rang.



It was my doctor. My test results came back positive, and I definitely still
have enough traces of cancer to require further treatment. The truth is that I
pretty much knew this too, and had several weeks to come to terms with the
idea.  But there’s something inherently evil about getting these two bits of news in
a row (I’m talking maybe an hour and a half apart), even if I was somewhat
prepared.



Except I misunderstood the treatment.



I won’t bore you with the specifics, but I thought I’d have a normal chemo
(easy as pie), wait three weeks, have another normal chemo (just a little
harder) wait three weeks, then go in to the hospital for three weeks for a high
dose of special chemo and a stem cell transplant. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a
pretty minor cancer, and I’ve been told that this treatment works basically
100% of the time, so it’s not an issue of terrifying death isn’t present (remember,
I’m trying not to whine). During this latest chat with the oncologist the bad
news was spilled – he wants me out of work for a solid three months. Oh.

 

 

 

But at the end of the story it turns out I’m gonna be okay.
I’m gonna get some paid leave while I’m out (hopefully the whole time), I’m
gonna survive the chemo (they’ve apparently developed new anti-vomit drugs in
the last four years), and while I’m out I’m gonna find a new job. I hope.

I promise I’ll be entertianing from now on, unless I end up in a bubble, then I’ll totally complain again.