cancer · chemo

Fucking Marla and Fucking Julia

So I don’t really love my chemo infusion people. Quelle surprise!

So I call the lady who draws my blood “Fucking Marla” because even though she’s “nice” she mentions God to me too much. <eye roll>

Also she comments on my clothes. Loves my coat but tells me my jeans are too big.

Thanks for the fashion heads up, Fucking Marla. Truthfully I think she says these things to me because she knows I’m not even almost like her. I can’t help it if I’m cooler than she is.

My infusion nurse I call “Fucking Julia”. She doesn’t like me because I have a mind of my own. I ice my hands and feet at every infusion—for the WHOLE infusion—because I’m trying to minimize possible neuropathy. She wasn’t into me doing it, but I told her I could never live with myself if I didn’t try. And that I was going to do it whether she liked it or not.

During my first infusion she congratulated me for showing up, saying some people just dodge it altogether. Then after my 2nd infusion, I asked while panicking a little if people ever freak out at chemo and she looked at me and said “no, never.”

Right, Fucking Julia. Way to contradict yourself.

I have 3 more rounds of this. Last one will be May 5 (if my blood counts stay up, please let them stay up!)

I shall never ever miss seeing these people again.

Final thought—there should be at least one atheist caregiver in every department of a cancer center.

Just sayin’.

But whatever.

4 thoughts on “Fucking Marla and Fucking Julia

  1. Maybe you could mail an anonymous letter (or NOT anonymous) offering “suggestions” on how to better interact with terrified patients who dread the treatment. Send them an eval.

    Shoot, I get evaluated every semester.
    As you’ve said many times, they don’t know what it’s like unless they’ve had it themselves. We got ourselves a severe lack of bedside manner aka empathy. Tell them so.

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  2. I am with you on wanting life back, wanting to live without all the medical BS. My brain is basically broke, the bandaids to hold it together are all these treatments promising an elusive “one day.”
    The mug you received, “I fucking hate everything,” wow. If we hated everything we wouldn’t struggle to live. And those god people, I told one, “It’s such a comforting thought to know that the god of the universe who could heal this entire thinks the absolute best thing for me is to have my life destroyed. I hope that makes him all comfty cozy.” Fuck those bitches.

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