Ouch, ouch

I finished radiation therapy on Tuesday and was pretty damned pleased with myself. I'd just sent off a fantastic letter to the editor of the Christchurch Press lambasting the stupidity of men in general but particularly men who whine about wanting money for breast cancer awareness for men. In New Zealand 20 men each year are diagnosed compared to 2500 women. Bad luck to those chaps but I can't get excited about spending precious health funding dollars to alert men to fondle their breasts more often. It's hard enough getting them to the doctor to feel their balls and men are much more likely to have trouble 'down below' than in their man boobs.

I'd also got through radiation pretty much unscathed. Some redness, tightness of skin, a little tiredness, that's it. I told the girls I'd have radiation every day if it meant not ever having chemo again. And then they told me some cold hard truths. "The burning will get worse before it gets better, and the pain should peak in about seven days time. But then you'll start to heal."

By Wednesday I was starting to have the odd throbbing pain, a some stiffness under the arm but was buoyed by the triumph of my writing. My letter still hadn't been published and this could only mean one thing - it had been selected for the Letter of the Week. Surely now my days as a part-time blogger were over. This would be the start of something big. You've seen Julie and Julia? I know that Sacha and Kylie doesn't have quite the same ring to it. But think of the spin offs. Miniature one-boobed barbies would surely be the next Happy Meal toy, all the A-listers would shave their locks, and Alison Holst could take a break from having her Favourite Muffins at the top of our best seller lists.

Thursday wasn't such a good day. Armpit getting decidedly ugly. More skin left on sheets than on body and the only thing that's remotely comfy to wear is nothing. Oh, and I got an email from Bruce Rennie regretfully informing me that The Press can't publish all letters it receives and that some good letters get left out.

Good? What sort of messed up wishy-washy adjective is that? My previously trusted bridesmaid F once introduced me to her new boyfriend and after a dazzling display of verbal gymnastics which included hilarious commentary of the day's events, insightful remarks about local body politics and a very accurate piss-take of Ruth Dyson I left to go home and put the spuds on. F asked this new boyfriend what he thought of me. "Oh, she seems nice enough." Needless to say, but mentioned for those who thought Kylie Minogue really was a friend of mine, he didn't last long and I'm not sure Bruce Rennie should sleep easy in his job either. Fancy missing the obvious brilliance that is me in full flight. Okay, I was a little over the word limit. I was perhaps a little strident in the expression of my opinion. But still. You want to read some of the crap they do print.

In hindsight perhaps my emotions were ahead of my body. Now I look how my letter sounded. I am raw, oozy and suffering. If you want to see for yourself, find me on facebook. You have been warned.