Mtngrl
06-28-2012, 01:13 PM
Kathi Kolb, the Accidental Amazon, has a new blog post that's well worth reading, especially the last bit, which says:
"Thus, for anyone out there who is not a cancerland resident. . . and thus doesn’t get it, here are a few declarations, in case you blocked them out the first or seventeenth time around, or just thought perhaps I was making it all up.
No, I am not ‘all better.’
Yes, I am still slogging my way through fatigue and low energy three-and-a-half years later. No, it’s not as bad as it was. Now, it’s less like being run over by a freight train and more like being flattened by the occasional stray eighteen-wheeler.
Yes, my concentration just sucks sometimes. And my train of thought sometimes derails unexpectedly. Although I can still usually find my way home.
When #2 or #3 are bad enough, I have to stop what I’m doing. Immediately. Not when it’s convenient for you.
I am working part-time not by choice, but out of necessity due to #2, 3 and 4.
That means I pay all my old bills with 1/5 less income. So if I say I can’t afford it, I can’t afford it. Period.
That also means that saying, ‘Why don’t you just hire someone to [fill in the blank with exertional life/home/yard task] for you?’ is not a helpful suggestion.
That also means that suggesting I should get more physical therapy for my chronic cording/arm/shoulder/chest pain is about as helpful as baying at the moon, because it involves a $500 out-of-pocket deductible and an average $30 co-pay for each visit, which I can’t afford. Besides which, it’s almost pointless, because no matter how much physical therapy is done on me, the problem always comes back.
It always comes back because radiation damage is permanent. P-E-R-M-A-N-E-N-T. Write that down and stop bugging me. If you really give a shit, how about buying me a hot tub?
No, I cannot work ‘some extra time’ to make up for my lost income. I can barely scrape out my part-time hours. That’s P-A-R-T time. See #2, 3, 4, 5 and 8.
When I make plans to hang out with you so we can catch up after not seeing each other for a while, that doesn’t mean it’s okay to bring your secretary/sister-in-law/new boyfriend/other-person-I’ve-never-met-before to tag along without asking me beforehand so that maybe their presence will mean I won’t talk about cancer. Guess again. This is where I live and I’ll talk about whatever I damn well please. And if you don’t like it, don’t make plans with me.
No, I am not cured. I am NED. There’s a difference. Look it up.
No, I will not explain any of this to you again.
The next time you don’t understand something, I suggest you RMFB, which stands for ‘Read my ___-ing blog.’
Ahhh…I feel much better now."
"Thus, for anyone out there who is not a cancerland resident. . . and thus doesn’t get it, here are a few declarations, in case you blocked them out the first or seventeenth time around, or just thought perhaps I was making it all up.
No, I am not ‘all better.’
Yes, I am still slogging my way through fatigue and low energy three-and-a-half years later. No, it’s not as bad as it was. Now, it’s less like being run over by a freight train and more like being flattened by the occasional stray eighteen-wheeler.
Yes, my concentration just sucks sometimes. And my train of thought sometimes derails unexpectedly. Although I can still usually find my way home.
When #2 or #3 are bad enough, I have to stop what I’m doing. Immediately. Not when it’s convenient for you.
I am working part-time not by choice, but out of necessity due to #2, 3 and 4.
That means I pay all my old bills with 1/5 less income. So if I say I can’t afford it, I can’t afford it. Period.
That also means that saying, ‘Why don’t you just hire someone to [fill in the blank with exertional life/home/yard task] for you?’ is not a helpful suggestion.
That also means that suggesting I should get more physical therapy for my chronic cording/arm/shoulder/chest pain is about as helpful as baying at the moon, because it involves a $500 out-of-pocket deductible and an average $30 co-pay for each visit, which I can’t afford. Besides which, it’s almost pointless, because no matter how much physical therapy is done on me, the problem always comes back.
It always comes back because radiation damage is permanent. P-E-R-M-A-N-E-N-T. Write that down and stop bugging me. If you really give a shit, how about buying me a hot tub?
No, I cannot work ‘some extra time’ to make up for my lost income. I can barely scrape out my part-time hours. That’s P-A-R-T time. See #2, 3, 4, 5 and 8.
When I make plans to hang out with you so we can catch up after not seeing each other for a while, that doesn’t mean it’s okay to bring your secretary/sister-in-law/new boyfriend/other-person-I’ve-never-met-before to tag along without asking me beforehand so that maybe their presence will mean I won’t talk about cancer. Guess again. This is where I live and I’ll talk about whatever I damn well please. And if you don’t like it, don’t make plans with me.
No, I am not cured. I am NED. There’s a difference. Look it up.
No, I will not explain any of this to you again.
The next time you don’t understand something, I suggest you RMFB, which stands for ‘Read my ___-ing blog.’
Ahhh…I feel much better now."