Blogging before coffee...

...probably a bad idea. We'll see. Okay this isn't working. Coffee first.

Better. I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I know, weird right? Death sort of then makes me think about life, life now, past life, future. Something has clicked for me, and made it very hard for me to think into the future beyond about 6 months. I'm okay with that for the most part. I think summer will be wonderful! Who wants to go on vacation?

Before I start rambling, let me update you on the facts of how I am doing, assuming that's probably the main reason you guys read this. So I'll do that before I continue on the "dear diary" theme. They added a new drug to my 3 chemotherapy agents. It's called Avastin. For those of you keeping track, I am now on xeloda, irinotecan, oxaliplatin, and avastin. Not sure if I'm spelling those right. I can't be bothered to look it up, the search button on my laptop is just way too far away. I'm doing okay, and finally got through a weekend with no nausea. Yay. Also, we got some good news from the doctor last week, a bloodtest showed that my CEA has dropped a lot. From a 40.5 at the start of treatment to a 9.5! What is CEA you ask? Let us let my friend Wikipedia explain:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carcinoembryonic_antigen

So I should really be packing right now. Moving this week to a big, wonderful new apartment with my boyfriend. I'm really looking forward to having some more space to stretch out in. And...we have a dishwasher. I plan to use as many dishes as possible in order to get the full use out of it. I'm taking this to the extreme. I'm talking different forks for different foods on the same plate. Anyways, so this new apartment is (obviously) more expensive than already overpriced closet I currently reside in. It's still "affordable." I think. But I get this nagging feeling...this nagging worry in the back of my head. At night when I go to sleep. Sometimes when I wake up. Or when I miss a shift at work. Or when I feel sick. It's this stress that I am going to die and leave my boyfriend stuck in a lease with an apartment he can't afford on his own. Is that sad? Or just funny? That's what Manhattan living has done to me! Perhaps I should have asked for the "girlfriend has terminal cancer opt-out clause" in the lease when we signed it.

I think my morbid thoughts can actually be attributed to the percocet withdrawal I am currently going through. We will hopefully all laugh some day, years from now, while sipping Arnold Palmer's on a wrap-around porch, somewhere green and beautiful. One of you will make some comment about your arthritis pills not working well enough as you reach for the pitcher and refill my glass. Then I will say "what you need are some good opiates. What's wrong with that quack of a doctor of yours?" And then a memory will pop into your head, from a time long passed and far removed from us now, and you will look at me and say: "Hey Reetz...remember that winter when you had cancer and developed a mild pain pill addiction?" And we well all have a good laugh.