A Matter of Time.

The thing about cancer is that it always looms.  Even when you beat it to it’s core, there is still that worry that it will spring forth new life and wreck havoc again.

I feel anxious and jittery these days.   For many reasons actually.  But this has been one that sits with me, compelling me to do so much more with the time I have been given, because you never know.  You just never know.

Time.

It is something that has become acutely aware within me.  I fear that there is not much left.

Everyone else sits calmly.   I can not.   They seem content with the motions.  Or in no hurry.  Priorities elsewhere.  Meanwhile, time…life, is slipping by.

If not now then when?

 

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Waiting Game

 

Time.

It’s all I seem to have.  Or does it have me?

The thing about having cancer is time.  It robs you of it.

Everything is a wait game.  Wait to see if the chemo is working.  Wait for the nausea to stop.  Wait for the headaches to go away.  Wait for the results of such and such scan.  Wait to see what the Dr’s say.  Wait for the chemo to clear your body.  Wait for the next phase of treatment.  Wait for the cancer to be gone.  Wait wait wait wait.

Meanwhile, I feel life is passing me by.

It’s as if I am stuck in a holding cell with windows where I can peer out into the world but can’t really be a part of.

So many events happening that I would like to be a part of.  So many activities that I would like to join in on.  So many places I would love to go to.

Yet I can’t.  Or at times, should’t.  I’m to fatigued or  my white blood cell count is so low I become neutropenic, and large crowds are to be avoided.

I try not  to be bitter about my circumstances.  I am extremely blessed to have the support system I have and I seem to be kicking this in it’s stupid fuck face, but at times I find myself extremely frustrated that I can’t do more.

So I wait.

 

I’m wearing Lipstick again.

“How long is forever?” asked Alice.  The White Rabbit replied “Sometimes forever is only an instant.”

It’s been one week with no contact.  It feels like months.

People keep saying it will get better.

It doesn’t feel better.  It feels as though I sink further and further with each passing day.

I’m trying real hard to stay busy….to keep moving.  Those moments when I stop, is when it creeps in.  I burst out sobbing over the mundane and ordinary because it sparks a memory in me of a time that was NOT mundane and ordinary.

I’ve been reading a book. 
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I can only read a few pages at a time.  The similarities come jumping off the pages and punch me in the face.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
And while the evidence is “there” my heart is still looking at the slight contradictions. It wants everything to be classic text book. It cannot accept scales. It knows that he can be caring and “empathic” towards others….yet it has no answer for when my head asks why he couldn’t be that way with me.

Even though the feelings on their end are contemptuous, and they have moved on, my heart still clings to the hope.

It doesn’t want to let go.

Getting It off My Chest.

I’m not a happy theater camper these days.  The show I am doing is really starting to annoy the crap out of me, all due to the incredible amount of time suckage it has become and other little annoyances.  I know I bitched about this in my last post, but goddamn.  I need to get more off my chest.

Speaking of chest, let’s just jump right into that.

Rant #1

For whatever reason, the producer/costumer of the show thought it would be best if they make me wear a super sized padded bra under my costume, to play upon the “pair” that my character, which just so happens to be an Au pair, should, what they think, have.

She seems to find this hilarious.  I’m an Au Pair, and I have a pair, Oh my! What a pair!  Get it??  Pair of big fake boobs, playing upon the word Pair in Au Pair? (Anyone else getting this?? ) meanwhile, I feel like a Dolly Parton drag queen.  (With out the big hair and make-up.)

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I think she partially did this because the dress she pulled for me, made me look frumpy, and instead of just finding something that fits and accentuates my already there curves, shoving padding in my bosoms seemed like the natural thing to do.  I mean, who has time to look for a fitted dress, when you can waste lots of time sewing big fake boobs into one?

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(dumb)

I sort of expressed my dismay to both her and the director stating that I thought it looked unbelievably silly and unrealistic; however, the director thought it was a good costume choice and assured me that it did look good.  I have my own questions concerning him. . . He is a seemingly quiet little man with small feet and a foo foo lap dog.  And not gay.  (Not that there is anything wrong with that if he were)  The fact that he was gung ho about the fake boobage makes me wonder if he is 100% testosterone, and like any typical male response to big boosies, giving the thumbs up or if he is just trying to appear 100% testosterone.  (again, small feet and foo foo dog. . .makes me wonder.)

(Side note:  He does have a girlfriend. )

Since I don’t want to be the Diva of the cast, I simply sucked it up and said ok, and grumpily sulked back to the bathroom, where I scoffed once more at my ridiculous reflection.

I don’t know why I am so offended by this costume choice.  It’s not like I am very busty to begin with, but you know, my girls are pretty nice.  I’ve never had any complaints.  I can bust out of a top with no padding.  If it’s one thing I like about my body, it’s them.

Maybe that is why I am taking such offense to my over accentuation.  I know, I should just get over it, do my part and shut up about it. . . but really.  I feel like an asshole.  My inner feminist is probably being over sensitive to the mocking and over exaggeration of my breasts.  ( I could go on a Fem rant here, but I’ll save it.)

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(ehh, maybe it doesn’t look so bad from the front.)

Rant #2:

Again, this whole eating up of my time.  Yesterday was to be double rehearsal with a dry tech run starting at 1 p.m. and then a run through of the show afterwards in full make up and costume.

For those of you not familiar with dry tech, it’s where you go over the lighting and sound cues with the lighting and sound crew.  It’s not necessarily running the whole entire show, but more so a cue to cue, meaning you start a few lines before the lighting/sound cue comes in, let them mark where and what needs to be done, and then move on to the next sound/lighting cue.  Let me just point out, there are not a lot of lighting and sound cues in this show.

Given past experience with shows and how I have been privy to how double rehearsals usually go, I figured we should have be done and out of there no later than 7 o clock in the pm.

So imagine my total surprise and dismay when at 3:30, after we had finished the cue to cue and cleaned up some of the blocking, when the director announced that the next run though with costumes would start at 7pm.  That night.

WTF?

So not only have I had to give up 3 hours of my time a day(6 if you count the driving) for the past month, now I had to sit there for what. . .another 9 hours?  On a Sunday???  That’s some bullshit.

It would be different if I was getting paid for it, but I’m not.  So fuck you.

I wish I could pin point exactly why all these things are really grating on me.  Once again, I have been apart of shows with grueling rehearsal schedules and have had to wear uncomfortable ridiculous costumes in the past. I’m with a theater I have always had interest in working with and I seem to be doing alright with my part.

Why am I so curmudgeonly about this?

Am I becoming set in my ways and getting to a point where I don’t like my “routine” and what I am used to being messed with?  I will admit I  have gotten in the habit where I do like to be in bed by 11 now.  When this crept on me, I have no fucking idea.  This whole being responsible grown up, worried about getting enough proper rest to make it through the next day. . . Total bullshit.

Or Is  my Taurean nature to always be comfortable running a muck?

I have no idea.  I just don’t feel like traipsing about with stuffed boobs.