Stupid Cancer Show -the text version

I had a request for my Stupid Cancer Rant to be typed out and readable, so here it is. And if you come see this, Cancersux, please reveal thy self. Anyone that goes by the name Cancersux must be a fellow cancer ninja.



Matthew Zachary:
Our survivor spotlight tonight features the likes of someone known as Baldylocks, the cancer blogger extraordinaire. Her website is Baldylocks dot com. She is an artist, writer, amateur video maker, saucy minx and general mucker arounder with an officious title of Cancer Fighting Ninja since March 30th 2006. Pre cancer she was a computer illiterate, hyper achieving, workaholic student with a background in set painting for theatre. She had one foot in the door to starting her MBA when the big C struck. Despite great plans and good life choices she is currently out of commission with no employable vocation. And also the proud owner of the domain FuckCancer.ca with serious intentions of using it, live from Canada, it’s my pleasure to introduce the Stupid Cancer Survivor Spotlight…..

Me:
My name is Baldylocks and I'm a 35 year old woman, but I'm still 6 years old in spirit and I'd guesstimate by my rate of going up stairs, at about 80 years old in body. I am an artist, a writer, an ideas person and an advocate. I am a woman who is hoping to find her soul mate or a reasonable facsimile. I am obsessively passionate about many things. I am a parent, unrelentingly creative, a dreamer/realist and someone who pushes boundaries to effect change.

I recently graduated from university at 33 with honours and with distinction, not a stitch of hair on my nether regions, a blue wig and a bit of attitude. I kicked some serious leukemic and academic ass. I dubbed myself chemo girl and rocked the bald head while living at the cancer lodge with the elderly. As it turns out, I'm too young for acute mylogeneous leukemia. I must have missed the memo.

Along with my malformed, mutant white cell invasion came many new and unexpected labels and talents. Unfortunately, I wasn't very good at fitting under labels before and post cancer diagnosis I seem to be...wait for it...still me.

I am a cancer patient and I am alive but I don't consider myself a survivor. I do not identify myself as a warrior. I am not fighting any battle. If I was, you can bet I would be wearing some sort of sexy Xena warrior princess outfit rather than 20 pounds from my prednisone and my flannel pyjamas. Oh and my sexy Scottish oncologist would have seen me naked in the throws of my fierce battle cry rather than in my hospital bed during a rectal exam.

I am NOT a martyr, an athlete, a cheerleader or a sugar coated Pollyanna, nor do I have the answers to the universe because of my cancer diagnosis. My attitude isn't open for public assessment. I don't have pink runners and if I ever say my cancer was a gift, you'll know to lower my medications.

I am me. Simply complicated, jaded and typically, non-typical, just like everyone else who is young with cancer.

Since my diagnosis with leukemia, my life is in a constant state of flux. Currently I am a shape shifter, morphing daily in body and spirit. It sounds cool but translated; it means that I haven't been able to recognize my self in the mirror for the last 2 years.

I've lost a few things in the last 2 years like my friends, my memory, my dignity, my ability to work, and my DNA. Stairs are my nemesis.

I have gained a few super powers from my chemotherapy, like being invisible. I could walk down any street and not one person would step out of my way to keep from knocking me over, open doors or even glance in my direction. Shhhh....I'm invisible.

I gained a talisman of closer and more accessible parking for my chemo vehicle called, a handicapped sign. Unfortunately my invisibility tends to wear off at the moments I use it and I seem to attract the self appointed parking police who say, "You can't park there, you look fine to me". Oh, indeed I can park there.

After my bone marrow transplant I have the ability to go on a bloody murder spree worthy of a CSI episode and the DNA evidence will be traced back to my donor. Thanks Dave! How cool is that?

I have become a magnet for layman medical advice, assessors of attitude and all knower's of Gods intentions. If I just switch to this diet, or take that supplement, if I just smile and have a great attitude or if I believe in God enough, I will be healed. I shouldn't complain, because I'm lucky to be alive. Heck, anyone could be hit by a bus tomorrow.

Everyone is a cancer critic.

Since my diagnosis I reserve the right to say, "fuck" whenever it is relevant or useful. Or whenever I fucking feel like it. I reserve the right to be pissed. I reserve the right to be angry because I am in fact still a real, multifaceted person with a range of complicated emotions despite what the newspapers and pink campaigns tell you.

So, here I am, still here, minding my own business, quietly disappointing the medias depiction of who I should be. Pink Poster child, I am not.

I guess you could just call me the cancer angster. It's cheaper than therapy, so I'm blogging until it hurts at Baldylocks.com

Make'n you think, but leaving out the pink.