Pity Party

So last night, I tried a jog around the Rose Bowl. It turned out to be more walk than jog, but I made it all the way around. Still, all I could think was, "Running the whole distance used to be easy." And I started to feel sad in a way that I guess I haven't really been able to feel since the first couple weeks after my lymphoma diagnosis.

People say I'm strong, and that I have a great sense of humor about the whole thing, and how amazing that is, and so on. I truly appreciate their words, but I have to thank God for whatever positive attitude I've managed to show, because the truth is, I hate having cancer. I hate chemotherapy. I hate everything about it. (Well, except maybe the comfy chairs. Then again, they are an icky shade of green, so never mind. I hate them, too.)

I hate the sticky-sweet smell of the soap they use at the doctor's office. I hate watching the nurse inject the one chemo drug that isn't clear, but is instead a disconcerting shade of magenta, into my veins.

I hate losing my sense of taste for days. I hate being unable to run, or sometimes even walk far. I hate feeling tired and sick but being unable to sleep those first few nights after a session. I hate knowing that almost as soon as I start feeling better, I'll have to have another treatment and the cycle will start all over again.

But above and beyond all these things, the thing I truly hate about having to go through chemo is the loss of my hair. I miss it so much. I hate being bald.

I know it's just hair. I know it'll grow back. I know, I know. But I don't care. I want it back now. And I can't have it. And there's not a thing I can do about it. In fact, there's nothing I can do about any of this.

Maybe I hate that most of all.