I have pink hair again today. At the library. While I’m working. That makes me happy.
I saw my psychiatrist today, Dr. Cool Indian Lady (CIL). She really loved my pink hair and said
You’re something else, you know? You’re great.
That made me happy.
Then I came back to work and talked a bit to my co-worker/friend about how I have to write another begging letter/memo about getting more, yes more, sick leave because I’ve already burned through the donated sick leave that they previously gave me because after the previous three chemo treatments I got sick.
That makes me sad. It’s hard to ask for these things. It’s hard on one’s ego, I guess. It feels like begging. I feel vulnerable in front of these strangers, these people up at the Big Campus who will get together in a committee meeting and look at my “situation” to determine if I’m worthy of more donated sick leave.
Then my co-worker asked:
You don’t have any vacation left?
I said that yes, I did, but I need my vacation leave as a back-up for everything else, that I can’t be left with nothing when I come back to work. When I tell her these things, I’m reminded of the 90% recurrence rate of my cancer and I don’t state that out loud, but it’s there in my mind, never far from my mind in fact, and I say:
It’s just that I might have to ask for donated sick leave again. I don’t know this for sure and I hope I don’t but . . . .
and the words hang in the air. My eyes are getting teary so I try to cut things off.
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. That’s the only way I know how to do it.
And I leave the back workroom because I just can’t talk about it anymore.
Sometimes I just can’t talk about it anymore.
Or I want to talk about it, but with people who understand,
and people who understand
are hard to come by here.