A Little Clarification & Other Matters

It's hard to stay chipper when you're just so damned tired!  Some days I think I need more antidepressants, but then I remember it's just fatigue.  It better be something I'll get over because I am leading a really useless life just now.

But I'm cheap to keep.  I've lost 13 kilos (28.5 pounds; 2 stone) since my operation.  Just not hungry.  Losing 13 is O.K. because that's what I'd gained, but it's time to call a halt.

Anyway, on a cheerier note, sort of, I have recalled that I've had spots before -- on my lung.  Sometimes they're there and sometimes they're not.  Or sometimes the oncologist mentions them and sometimes he doesn't.  When he does, he tells me they're "nothing."  So I guess the liver spots are the same.

And here are a few pictures I've been meaning to post.

Lance Armstrong's 1999 Yellow Jersey from the Tour de France, donated to Centre Léon Bérard, the hospital I go to.

The T-shirt says, "Behind every successful woman there is frequently a rather talented cat."

The 13 kilos disappeared between this picture and the next.

Wave bye-bye to what hair we had time to grow.

The T-shirt says "Thousands of years ago, cats were worshipped as gods.  Cats have never forgotten this."

Depression and Substitutes for Same

First of all, regarding the picture on my last post, did you know that it's really, really hard to tell boy polar bears from girl polar bears?

That out of the way. . .


When you suffer from depression and you're hypothyroid and you're missing a goodly percentage of your red blood cells, it is really, really hard to tell if you're just tired or you're depressed. Once the depression wears off, though -- should you be so lucky -- you can tell. So, for the last week, I've been tired and depressed, but since yesterday I'm only tired. What an improvement, eh?

Today I even woke up before noon. 8 am even. As I was up, anyway, I called the oncologist to say that I've had a bloody nose for two days and what should I do? This gave me the rest of the morning to get to Nyons for blood tests as I was too late to call the nurse and get the samples in the daily courier service.

So now I've had the blood tests which will be faxed to the oncologist and my GP this afternoon and I'll go see my GP in her 5 to 7 Wednesday evening stint. And try to remember to show her the two little hematomas (I'm guessing) on my leg.

I've had the bloody nose a couple of times before, but this is the first time it's hung on. It's just bloody; it doesn't drip, if that makes any sense. Well, O.K., it drips if I'm wearing my best pale yellow sweatshirt -- the one with the cat's eyes strategically placed that says "Montreal" on it. I wear it when I'm masquerading as a Canadian. I probably won't have to do that any more now that Obama is president-elect.

Then, again, when I get my new passport next year, I not only won't be able to masquerade as a Canadian or anything else; any passing Anti-American can just get out his little card reader and shoot me. Not that we ex-pats are paranoid or anything. We're just better travelled and more realistic than the jackasses who dreamt up the new passports. My theory is that it's a plot by officials who don't get enough junkets.

O.K., maybe I'm a little paranoid.

The Fall

After the two days of terminal nausea, I've just been tired. Flattened. Steam-rollered. Crevée. (Means flattened in French and, for some reason that I cannot fathom, is a Bad Word.) Mostly, after I've managed to get dressed, I lie on the sofa and read. And sleep.

Two days ago, I wondered why I've been using Fungizone as a mouthwash every night (and then, according to instructions, swallowing it), so I stopped. Yesterday, mouth ulcers returned.

I'm getting something for my white blood cells, maybe next month I should ask for something for my red cells.

And I asked about jogging! Ha ha ha!

At least if I'm telling you I feel rotten, you should believe me when I tell you I don't.

Apologies to all I owe e-mails.