So, I like to write. And I have a blog. And I have cancer. And my blog is conveniently titled something generically aspirational. So obviously, I’m repurposing the blog now and will make this my place where I deal with the cancer. In a setting that is far superior to, god bless its humble and free heart, Caring Bridge.
This space will really only be used for humor, so if cancer does not immediately scream comedy to you, either stay tuned, or run away. (I did actually write and erase a Caring Bridge joke, so maybe I do have some sense of propriety.)
Ok, it will be humor with some generous doses of abiding gratitude for all the good and the love in my life. But I will try to avoid being maudlin because one wouldn’t be after writing maudlin things. (In an Irish person’s head, literally the only thing worse than talking about death, torture, the horrors of the world, etc, is being MAUDLIN.)
Which brings me to cuticle care. Obviously.
So the thing about cancer, so far, is it turns you into a freaking paragon. Drinking? Only in my past. Oral hygiene? A must, and therefore I not only brush all three times a day (like, really, as opposed to just telling my dentist that’s what I do) but I also rinse with salt-water. What?
And I have to give up my lifelong love of biting my nails. I’ve tried everything to give up nail biting. I’ve put the gross tasting stuff on the nails. I’ve gotten manicures. I’ve thought long and hard about what my fingers have been in contact with–escalators on the subway, doorknobs at daycare–and still I bite my nails. Now, I get to try CANCER. Since having
mangled uneven nails is not ideal for health, I am now medically not allowed to bite my nails. Dammit.
So I invested in cuticle cream, and now all I can think of is this.
I will have bigger struggles, I’m sure. But for now, being required to be a morally exemplary human being with good nails is the struggle that defines me.