I’m drinking a root beer at 9:30 in the morning. Sort of a blueprint for this day.
Last night I skipped dinner but I did enjoy a bottle of rosé. The entire bottle.
Blame it on I was really thirsty but not at all hungry. That and feeling immoderate; wildly so. Caution to the wind.
So there was that.
I’d like to say I woke up refreshed and ready to seize the day. Not so much. But this hangover is not alcohol related.
I’m just tired of having cancer.
Tired of chemo and its attendant side effects. Tired of being broke. Weary of a future that is full of question marks. Burnt out on being a good sport.
If life was a movie this is where I’d turn to the director and say ‘Hey. I’ve been showing up on this set for fifteen years now. My role is a shitty one but I’ve been giving it my all. Day in and day out. Even doing my own stunts. But you know what? I need a break. Find yourself another supporting actor.’
And then I’d head to the nearest pool. Order a cold drink with a paper umbrella, while I read scripts with happily ever after endings and worked on my tan. In between calls from my agent I’d be talking to my financial advisor, planning my retirement.
In reality I’m going to mix up a nice glass of amino acid to deal with mucositis, ignore my burgeoning debt, schedule a new therapy appointment, plan on scans again in two weeks and chemo in three.
Whine. I shall also whine.
The privilege is mine. All mine.