Cancer Selfies

Hospice

Hospice Suite. St. Joseph's General Hospital, Elliot Lake, Ontario.

The hospice suite is my home now. I've been in treatment for a partial bowel obstruction for a few weeks. For a while, it was promising, but then things turned, and the word hospice was uttered more and more regularly.

I have thoughts about many things, about how we talk about people as having lost their battle with cancer (you do you, but it's not for me), the ubiquity of Fuck Cancer bumper stickers (you do you, not for me) and even my own cancer as a seige (I like it more than a battle, but ultimately it shares the same problem). I can't stand the hushed tones and terror in our voices, as though it was some cheap fantasy villian.

All I've got, after two years of treatment and surgeries and hospital stays and mounds of medications and so much vomiting is the slowed down, minor key, horror movie trailer cover of Abba's Waterloo. Something fun and wonderful turned terrible, terrible but somehow compelling.

I intend to remain in hospice for the majority of the remainder of my life. I would love to see people. Lots of people. The celebration of life that will follow my passing will be a smaller, quieter affair, to reflect the wishes and needs of my family.

The Hospice Suite is located at St. Joseph's General Hospital in Elliot Lake, Ontario. 70 Spine Lake Road. Visiting hours are listed as 11AM-7PM, but staff have been really flexible with us so far.

Elliot Lake is two hours from either Sudbury or Sault St. Marie, has one hotel (Hampton Inn, it's nice), there are highway side motels (varying quality) and some options in Blind River (40 minutes away).

Because of disease progression, and especially the amount of painkillers I'm on, I don't have as much internet energy as I used to. I'm trying to read everything as I can, but I won't be able to respond as I used to. It's just the nature of my Waterloo.

I love you all, you've meant so much to me for as long as I've known all of you, and especially for the last two years.

PS the hospice is animal friendly, so you might get to meet an orange cat (but she's been anxious, so we might leave her at home)

PPS this is a catholic hospital, and that's a complicated question for the healthy to debate, I'm not interested in that debate, any discussion of religion (I'll fist bump and share a Coke over some forms of annihilation) and any discussion of politics.

PPPS I don't know how long I have.

From the comments

There were many kind responses to this post. I don't have the heart to go throuhg them again. The scrapbook records them.

Consider donating to St Joseph's Hospital in Elliot Lake, they do excellent work for a small community. They're working on improving their oncology area, which is very close to my heart. These improvements will allow more patients to recieve their treatment in the community they live in, rather than traveling two hours each way to the nearest cancer centre.

If you want to keep your money closer to home, then please consider donating to a hospice. The one here has given me and my family so much joy and comfort in a very difficult time in our lives time. I don't think I'd still feel as alive and vibrant, and I would not still be creating, without the care this hospice provides. Hospice is a gift we all deseve at our appointed hour.

Northeast Cancer Centre

When I moved a month ago, I left my old health region. This means finding a new primary care physician, palliative care physician and oncologist. I'm still working on a GP and waiting on a referral for a local palliative care doctor, but today I met my new oncologist.

In the past month, my symptoms have gotten noticibly worse. The pain in my kidney is more severe, and more common, and the other one has joined in, too. Plus, lots of random pelvic pains. Codine is controlling it well, but this is the first time since diagnosis I've needed regular pain control.

We'll be restarting chemo as soon as we can because of this. There are tests and paperwork to get out of the way first, but my doctor would like to have it going in the next couple weeks. Between the first and second rounds of chemotherapy, I had six months (most of which were spent recovering from surgery), this time I'll have around two. I'm doing well, given the situation, and am in good spirits, but the disease is progressing, it cannot be stopped, and the outcome has never been in question.

And as a way to show how completely this experience has changed me, I confidently, and completely without anxiety, asked how much time I have left. And the answer didn't phase me. Human beings can adjust to, and become skilled at, anything.

A year.

Which is an upgrade over what I thought this morning.

From the comments

James Petrosky:I share a lot, but also don't talk about a bunch of things. January and February were very hard for me, having a birthday that was poorly marked (chemo's fault, it was celebrated eventually) when you know, with low but significant, certainty that it will be your last is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. I'm not excited about doing it again.

No, you (everyone) couldn't have done anything to help, or I'd have asked. I almost never talk about it, but the cancer centre does have some mental health support. I've made extensive use so far.

Partial Bowel Obstruction Part 4: Ice Cream

It's not all bad, my doctor's ordered full fluids lunch included a doctor's ordered vanilla ice cream

From the Comments

James Petrosky:And I got tea! Coffee this morning was pretty disappointing. I should have tea after meals more, I always really enjoy it in hospitals

James Petrosky: Ron Bedison I'll get into the habbit for a few weeks at a time, then go visit someone or something else to break the cycle, and forget I was doing it. Before this round of chemo, I was having tea and cookies most days in an attempt to eat 5 smaller meals. Chemo ruined that one.

Becca Simmons: My more rural family always drink coffee after a meal. Like, always. It's honestly really nice and idk why I don't do it except around them

James Petrosky: Becca Simmons my parents do the same, and the way they make coffee it would be so easy to make a cup of tea, too, but I never ask. It's a nice little ritual, especially if you pick your deserts to go well with coffee

Partial Bowel Obstruction Part 3: NG Tube

I'm not having the best day

From the comments

James Petrosky: I had the tube after surgery. The tube was my least favourite part of my time in hospital post surgery. I don't think I've ever agreed to something I wanted less than the tube this time

Mica Richard: At least you're a cute elephant? Seriously though feel better ❤️

Partial Bowel Obstruction Part 2

Last night, at around 9PM, I ate a slice of pizza. By the time I was done eating, I knew something was very wrong. My whole abdomen hurt with an intensity only beaten by my pre diagnosis cancer. I should have gone to the ER at this point, but went to sleep instead.

I woke up in still significant, but much reduced, pain and knew I had to go to the ER. I was reasonably sure that what was wrong with me was a bowel obstruction. Tumors along the intestine are a common cause, and unfortunately I have those.

It was a partial bowel obstruction. The doctor knew it as soon as he read my history. Unfortunately proving it with tests took the whole day.

I've been admitted, hopefully not for too long. Since my obstruction is partial, just letting my bowels do their thing, while controlling pain and keeping me hydrated, under observation, might work. I haven't been spoken with about other options yet.

Partial Bowel Obstruction Part 1: ER Visit

Guess who's been in the ER all morning! When I finally get out of here I need to pick up a new laser pointer and some catnip because it was that friggin pizza that did it to me

From the Comments

James Petrosky: No idea what's wrong yet, should have realistically come in last night but I was too tired to make decisions. Have had an xray or two.

James Petrosky: I've been between 5-8 pain for 16 hours now and that's getting a bit exhausting

Mareile S. Håland: Dr Thomasin MD! 😮 She tried to warn you!

Chemo course three over

Cycle 12, Day 5

This one collects a whole month of photos.

I'm glad this round of treatment is done. I'm exhausted, I'm so sick of feeling sick all the time. It feels like the side effects (best case scenario, side effects) never really leave. I'm so run down. I need a break - a real break. And I kind of get one.

I feel good this afternoon, not great, but good. I had something called hydration yesterday. For me, it's a litre of IV saline over four hours. Hydration keeps me up all night, because I need to use the bathroom. The need to use the bathroom keeps me on the edge of sleep. Last night was all nightmares. This afternoon, I've recovered. I'm tired, but I went grocery shopping.

The break I get is from chemotherapy. I need a break from it, my body needs to recover. If I don't take a break, my quality of life will get too low and, eventually, I'll refuse treatment. I want a long break. Last time I had roughly six months. My oncologist doesn't want me to take that long. Every day I'm not receiving treatment, I'm losing ground to the cancer. It's the worst optimization problem I've ever had to think about.

I talk to my current oncologist for likely the last time in mid May. It'll take a few weeks to get me fully transfered to an oncologist in Sudbury. And a few more weeks after that to schedule treatment. That's likely what my break looks like. The six month break did very little to reduce the intensity of the side effects I was feeling. It was almost as if no time had passed. I've had a hard time making myself go to treatment for the last few months. I think I'm likely to refuse further treatment before the cancer spreads somewhere serious. I'm not there yet, though.

I don't get a break from life, though. I don't have nearly as much as I used to left, and I'm going to get rid of even more, but I packing is still exhausting. Now that I'm off chemo, I'm hoping I recover some of the energy I used to have so I can get stuff done.

From the comments

James Petrosky: My hair hasn't started to come back yet, but the facial hair really has. I'll take the small victories, even if the texture is different than it used to be

Moving Anxiety

Not even past the main chemo side effects and already consumed by moving anxiety. I coulda used a day, you know?

From the Comments

James Petrosky: Not looking for help quite yet, I'm going to do another purge pass first.

James Petrosky: Wish I hadn't been talked into hydration, it keeps the treatment train going until Sunday and I don't have the mental fortitude (but it's doctor's recommendations, so I'll try)

Chemo remains difficult, even with magic medicine

Cycle 10, Day 5

Recovery is noticibly harder this time. It's been getting worse over the last few cycles. I don't know if I'm not eating enough, or of the tight foods, but it's Saturday and I'm still in bed (and I forgot to eat today). It's not nausea, thankfully, it's all lower digestive. Those symptoms were rough last time I did chemo, too.

After dinner, during quieter hours, I'll go grocery shopping. I have to eat candies constantly while wearing my mask or I'll risk gagging the whole time. In a day or two that won't be a problem, but for now it's something I have to deal with. It's weird, but there are only two more cycles to go this round, so I'll make it.

Monday is CT scan day. I'll get the report, which I can't really interpret at all, by the end of the week. I'll speak to the oncologist about it on day 14, as we move into the second last cycle.

From the comments

James Petrosky: My hair hasn't started to come back yet, but the facial hair really has. I'll take the small victories, even if the texture is different than it used to be

Moving to Elliot Lake?

Cycle 9, Day 8

For a few months now, I've been taking lorazepam daily to help treat insomnia (no idea the cause of it, chemotherapy and several of my side effect drugs can cause it, and while I don't consciously experience the stress of my situation, it is extremely stressful). Last night I thought I was tired enough to go without. I was not. And, at this stage of disease and chemo, no sleep means nothing gets done in a very literal way.

And I have a lot to do. I've been thinking about moving to Elliot Lake (where my parents live, and much nearer my brothers and extended family) for months now, and now I have an apartment and move in date. Tentatively I'll be moving May 1st. This round of treatment is done on April 9th, which should work out fine. So long as I only spend 4 or 5 days every cycle in bed.

This isn't the reason I wanted to move back home (for a very regional definition of home), but I'm still happy to be doing it.

The magic anti nausea pill

Cycle 7, Day 6

Throughout this course of treatment, I've reliably spent between 5 and 7 days of my two week chemo cycle throwing up. Taking my as needed medicine got this down from many times a day to a couple, and cannibis use eliminated the problem most nights, but the problem remained: I was regularly being sick, and when you're sick, it's really hard to make yourself eat. Which leads to unwanted weight loss, chills and laying around in bed all the time.

At the start of cycle 6, we slightly reduced my dosage of a few chemotherapy drugs (we aren't trying to prep me for surgery anymore, I'm trying to have as much of a life as I can, so it made sense. We also added an expensive (after drug plan it's still 20$ a dose) anti nausea medicine. And it might as well be magic. I haven't even felt mild nausea in two cycles, almost three weeks. I had a lot more nausea in the months leading up to resuming chemotherapy in November. And with no nausea, I have a desire to eat more and better food, and the energy to actually cook. I have more days I can be out of the house. It's fantastic. I'm glad I can afford the drug, because 20$ is buying a whole lot of quality of life for me right now.

From the comments

James Petrosky: She doesn't look it, but Thomasin was purring through our little photo session. She'd have been happier on my lap, but she's a good sport

Chemotherapy and birthdays

Cycle 6, Day 9

This morning I did laundry. My apartment has no facilities, so I have to go to a laundromat. Because of the plethora of airborne diseases that circulate during the Canadian winter, I wait in my car for the cycles to finish. I've put off laundry since I got back from Christmas because it's been too cold on my non-chemo days, and today was the first positive temperature in weeks. It was time. I finished the chore, but the chill put me in bed for the rest of the day. And I'm still tired from it.

On Friday, I have a CT scan. I think everything I'm feeling is a side effect, not a new symptom, but it's impossible to be sure. I don't want to give false impressions, I fully expect this scan to have results incremental with the last. I'm not particularly stressed about it, and if laundry hadn't taken it all out of me I don't think I'd be worried at all. But eventually one of these is going to show something very bad, and that eventuality cannot be forgotten.

My birthday is next week, and that's always been a pretty mixed day for me, this year impossibly so. Right now I'm scheduled to be finishing up a round of chemo on it, making the whole thing moot, but my neutraphil numbers are getting low, and we might delay the next cycle a week because of it. This'll be the last birthday I am certain to be able to do what I want, so I have unbelievably complicated feelings about it all. I'll find out on Friday, also, what's going to happen.

For now, I'm too tired to really let any of this bother me too much, although it does sap my drive to do much of anything.

From the comments

James Petrosky:

James Petrosky: Oh! There are twelve cycles in my course of treatment, so we're half way! I didn't think to mention it because I know the CT scan means half way, but that isn't universal information

Chemotherapy, even more of the same and worse

Cycle 3, Day 14

It's been a while. I've lost all my hair. Visited the chemo suite a few times. And been significantly more active outside of my apartment than I was last year. It hasn't been easy, and it's been slow going, but we're more than half way to my next CT scan, which is still a major treatment milestone for me. Like last year, it's two groups of six cycles and a CT scan to complete this treatment plan.

I started this treatment plan with some digestive symptoms, a lot of nausea and vomiting, and a mild-medium pain in my right kidney. Digestive problems remain pretty constant, but the cause is chemotherapy, not cancer, now. At this point I can tell pretty easily. I still experience a fair amount of nausea, but it's limited to the treatment part of the cycle, a huge quality of life improvement. My kidney is doing better, and no longer causes discomfort, but will require monitoring for the rest of my life (it's part of my standard bloodwork, though). We're back in the swing of things, the rhythm of treatment is normal again, and it feels as good as this sort of thing can.

From the comments

James Petrosky:

James Petrosky: It's harder for me to talk about things this time around. It's all so normal now. It's cycle three, but it's also cycle twentyish. I don't have anything new or interesting to say about chemotherapy. And we're not working towards something exciting, we're doing it all because it's part of the assumptions that go into the prognosis calculation. It's how I get my year. Which is hugely meaningful to me, and those around me, but it's not sexy like major surgery. Human beings will adjust to anything.

Chemotherapy, the same and worse

Cycle 1, Day 1

Here we go again.

Lots more in suite side effects today. Had to pause treatment a few times. That's happened before, but never this much. I hope it's not a trend.

PICC's gone, though. They pulled all 20 some cm out all at once and I didn't even feel it. Once the access to the port has been removed, after the take home bottle has been removed and I'm through hydration, I can have my first plastic wrap free shower since September 14, 2023.

Hydration is just running saline through the port to help clear remaining chemo drugs from my kidneys. It's fairly a common part of treatment, I was just bouncing back quickly last time so it wasn't necessary.

The Return to the Chemo Suite

On Tuesday afternoon, I make my return to the chemo suite at Royal Victoria Hospital. I haven't been there since the spring. Leaving, I had a very reasonable expectation that I might never have to go back.

But I have to go back.

Last chemo winter, I was so very careful. No theatres or other recreation. Grocery stores during off hours only. No rare meat, raw fish or runny eggs. Last winter, with the promise of surgery, it was easy to hold to these rules. It's going to be much, much harder this time. I need to ask what the risk level is.

I've been busy this past month. A few weeks ago I packed up my work toolboxes and all but officially ended my work life. I'd have gone back had the surgery panned out, but I doubt I'd have lasted very long. My time off had given me needed perspective. Going back in wasn't very hard or emotionally draining because of that. I've managed to get rid of most of my books, I only still have stuff I want to (but am unlikely to) reread. It's only a small box worth, I'm comfortable with that. Also gone are all the non horror VHS tapes. Months and months of trying to do this task have finally allowed me to work through the feelings problem. As a collecter bordering on minor hoarder, it's a good feeling to get stuff out the door without anxiety.

I have a tremendous amount of dread for the coming six months. It's absolutely necessary and it's going to be rough. I don't want to feel sick all the time (even though I already do) and I've grown vain and really, really don't want to lose all my hair. I love the way my hair grew back, it's how I long wanted it to be. I'll spend the winter in a fairly strong physical and social isolation. When terminally ill people talk about whether further treatment is worth it or not, disease state and side effects are part of it, but so is every other aspect of our lives. Right now, even with this dread, further treatment is worth it for me. We all have to know and accept that won't remain true forever.

Port-a-Cath day

Today I had a port (port-a-cath or implanted port) implanted under the skin over my collarbone. It will eventually replace my PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) for my IV chemotherapy treatment, at which point the PICC will be removed from my arm.

Like a PICC, a port is a catheter that feeds to the large veins near the heart. Unlike a PICC, which always has a length of plastic tubing outside of your skin, the port is completely under the skin. In my case, it has a metal disk attached to a plastic catheter. To use it, the skin above the disk is numbed, cleaned and pierced with a special needle, through which my chemotherapy will be delivered into the catheter, and then into my bloodstream. A PICC works similarly, but instead of stabbing, uses valves and connectors.

The insertion was a surprisingly painless affair. I was given some IV painkillers (through the PICC), some stronger local anesthetic, and then felt nothing as the radiologist guided the catheter down my vein and placed the metal under my skin. Like the PICC insertion, I was awake, and like the PICC insertion, I worked myself up way more than was justified or useful about the procedure.

This will be a major quality of life improvement for me. The PICC requires weekly maintenance by a nurse, the port also requires maintenance, but monthly, and only when not in use. The PICC is through the skin, and that entry point must be kept sterile at all times. The port is under the skin, and is as clean as the vessels it feeds into. This means I can submerge my port, which is forbidden with a PICC. Once the PICC is removed in a week or two, I'll be able to shower without spending 5 minutes wrapping my arm in plastic cling film. Come the summer, I'll be able to go swimming. I won't have to worry about getting so sweaty that the PICC dressing falls off (it happened in July). I'll also set off some metal detectors, which probably won't happen but sounds neat. And as far as cyborg implants to, metal deliberately placed under your skin beats plastic tube coming out of your arm any day.

I hope to never need another catheter inserted into my chest cavity. A port can last years. It should serve me for the rest of my treatment. I have a good idea of what using a port looks like in the chemo suite, I've spent enough time there and seen them in use. I'm less sure what it means for my take home bottle, but I'm honestly pretty excited that there's still new things here, even if I'd rather no one ever have to learn them.

From the comments

James Petrosky: One of the people in the procedure room (probably a nurse) commented that I have very small ears while putting on the oxygen tube. Which is true, and a thing I've heard a lot before, mostly from romantic partners. What I hadn't heard is that I have a small nose. And because I can see my nose and it's always blocking something I want to see, I've always thought the opposite.

Sherri: What do you spend your time while you receive your chemo? Between [all my treatments], waiting my turn when an ER patient comes in, I might be 5-8 hours at the hospital. TV is what I did ( although some days I just rested). I would have brought stuff, but between the walker and a few other things…

James Petrosky: Sherri depending on your chemo, you can be there anywhere between 1-8 hours. I'm only there for 2-3. There are some Facebook groups I only check every couple of days, so I'll just save up stuff to look at. My Switch's battery lasts about 3 hours. I also spend a lot of time people watching. Sherri: James Petrosky - people watching comes naturally to me. For many reasons. Not that I stare or anything, but even to watch interactions- as a teacher and instructor/ lifeguard as well as many other jobs with the public, it comes with the territory.

Returning to the Chemo Suite

I said a few weeks ago that my cancer symptoms had become more noticeable than my surgery symptoms, and today's talk with the oncologist was a natural consequence of that. I see her again on November 6th, and return to the chemo suite on the 8th.

This is not inherently bad news. The CT scan showed no new tumors, my blood counts are good, there is no evidence of dangerous new mutations yet. I've simply been off treatment for over six months, and it's time.

I'll still be receiving the same chemotherapy cocktail, with the same two week cycle, and the same take home bottle. I am not excited, or looking forward to it, but at least I know exactly what to expect this time around.

I asked about future chemotherapies. There are an additional two varieties of chemotherapy regularly used for colon cancer (which is what I'm being treated for, although I have the related appendix cancer), I don't remember much about the third, but the second is largely similar to what I've been on so far, side effect wise. For me, it's comforting to know that the expected time my treatment options will last is longer than my prognosis, so I shouldn't have to worry about pain.

In the next month I need to get my broken tooth pulled, ideally quickly so it has lots of time to heal before my immune system crashes around cycle 3. I need to finally see my palliative care doctor and get those plans firmly in place. I need to get legal stuff in order. I need a port installed and my PICC removed. And I have one more day trip to make.

Trips & Treatment

This set of photos was taken over the past month.

I can't remember if I've said anything about the CT scan I got a few weeks ago, or the blood work I had done before I left for Bancroft, but that has happened, and it's time to see my oncologist. The appointment is tomorrow afternoon.

I don't have a good understanding of how people think I'm doing. I know I've been pretty vocal about how the surgical recovery has been going (very well, overall, but further gains are likely to be small, although its possible I don't yet know my capacity in some regards). But I have been less vocal (I think) about cancer symptoms.

I haven't been able to sleep through a night in weeks. I'll wake up, with my guts feeling like their solid, in the middle of the night. Sometimes water makes me have to use the bathroom with urgency. Sometimes it makes me throw up for a half an hour. Either way, sometimes I can get back to sleep, sometimes I doze until noon.

The list of things my dietician recommended I avoid a month or two ago has become largely mandatory. The small amount of coleslaw you get with fish and chips is usually fine, but salad or a helping of broccoli is a mistake. Fish never seems to be a problem, chicken is fine unless fried, and most red meat should be avoided. These rules must be followed exactly when far from home, or if I want to travel the next day, but can still be relaxed a bit if I'm staying in the Midland area.

The combination of chemotherapy and sleeplessness, at least, have left me extremely forgetful, clumsy and sluggish. I keep losing my keys. I've forgotten how to do basic computer stuff I've known for decades (or have tried to do it the Windows 95 way). I cannot focus on books, even though I got a fun adult book about dinosaurs from the library. My cooking abilities, long atrophied by years of deep depression, can't manage with my boring diet, tiny kitchenette and lack of energy to do dishes or other chores.

There are pains. Pains in places I especially don't want them, places that might indicate tumor growth (but probably not spread). But are they the sort that predate all this? I can't remember. I'll bring them up.

I'm extremely tired. I'm not particularly jazzed about continuing to do this. I've grown more and more convinced that the Bancroft trip is my post surgery peak, and that it's slow decline from here on. Those sort of thoughts are the way of madness, but the nature of the recovery and the disease means there will exist a peak or plateau.

Two weeks ago I was pretty certain I would not be restarting chemotherapy this time. The CT scan report only reinforces this conclusion. But the last few weeks have been rough, and I'm a lot less sure now.

<figcaptionHuntsville sculpture forest

From the comments

James Petrosky: When I started, I had many reasons to take my selfies, but I was pretty certain they weren't for me. I have no idea if they were then, I don't have access to that brain state. They're absolutely, in part, for me now

James Petrosky: I took a drive, ate a shawarma, almost ate some additional Taco Bell (the line was too long), had a nice drive until I met a raccoon, found a potential corn maze that's very close, and feel a bit better. It's hard to make yourself eat when your stomach is off, even when you know it'll make you feel better. And I need to try harder to get out of the apartment every day, even for a little walk, even if it's hard once the October storms come and it's always so rainy. None of these steps solve anything, but it isn't about solutions, it's a about comfort. For that reason, I'm happy to see my oncologist tomorrow. I get to do a trip to Barrie, I get to talk to people and be around people who, sadly, understand my situation. I get to go for pho after, which is damn near the perfect food for if you're chronically underhydrated like me.
I don't like chemotherapy, but I like trips and cats and people, so if it's time for it, then I look forward to quiet days laying in bed watching old noirs.

PICC and chemo anniversaries

Tomorrow is the anniversary of Cycle 1, Day 1 of chemotherapy. And I don't have a lot to say about it that I haven't said already. It's a horrible medicine, but it's what's keeping me alive and going on adventures. At this point, there's simply no me without it, and that's just a fact I have no choice but to accept, and that's fine.

Last year, late at night, after the PICC had been inserted (one year anniversary today), after I'd had my little walk down to the breakwater and gazed lovingly into the void where either Wasaga Beach should be, or where the sun just departed from, I returned home and took these two pictures. Pictures I did not intend to share. Pictures just for me, so I could track how the disease and the treatment were affecting my body.

Honestly, a year later, I expected a much, much, more dramatic change. Chemo is one of those drugs that really scales with your bodyweight, so I know for a fact, from the exact same calibrated scale, that I have varied by about a kilogram this whole time (2.2lbs). But the photos match the scale. The change is largely in the hair, not the body.

From the comments

James Petrosky: For clarity, the photos with green hair and the blue shirt are from 2022, roughly 12 hours before first chemo. The photos with the cool Michael Myers shirt are from 2023.

Mortality

I reflected on this on September 4, 2024

This is the anniversary of when I started this album. I'm not sure what I thought I was doing then, but eventually I found my comfort zone relating my experiences with the medical system - the administrative side and the treatment side. This was a comfortable place through chemotherapy, and honestly an exciting one for me to be in through surgery. But I've struggled a bit since then.

I thought it was just that surgical recovery was boring (and it is), but chemotherapy was the same two week cycle sixteen times, and I never felt this way about it. I still talk nonstop about my cancer, as any of you who know me in person, or are in the same Facevook groups, can attest. But I haven't been able to figure out this place.

I think the reason is that, in light of my failed surgery and prognosis, the only place it made sense for me to go was do the same kind of day by day thing, but instead of it being about getting the full cancer trearment experience at 35, it's about grappling with mortality at 36 and, statistically, dying at 37.

Mental health wise, I'm just coming down from a minor hypomanic episode and feel stable, bipolar wise. My lithium levels are good. If asked how I'm doing, I'd truthfully answer "good, given the circumstances," but I can't tell you if that means I'm doing good.

I'm not an actor, though, when you see a look of delight on my face, that's real. I do have an actual notebook with an actual list of neat stuff to do and I am actually crossing things off on all my little adventures. I'm getting out and experiencing the world. Probably doing way more than I ever would have if I remained otherwise healthy, too, which is a thought too terrifying to contemplate.

To end, because it's been haunting my dreams and hopefully sharing will help, if someone, someday, talks about my death bed conversion, know that they are a disgusting fiend who takes advantage of the vulnerable to glorify themselves. If disease progression or treatment leaves me vulnerable earlier than that, same logic applies. These people were never able to convince me so far, I doubt they'll come up with something compelling in the next few years. I doubt I'm interesting or notable enough to receive this treatment, but I know it happens, so I know I'm not 100% unreasonable in my fears.

From the comments

James Petrosky: 37 is an estimate. I don't want anyone who knows me well enough to start doing math on my birthday and panicking. 38 is probably a better estimate, but 37 fits the flow a lot better, and it's all statistics based on regular colon cancer anyways

James Petrosky: I want to dramatically say "from here on in its all about death" but honestly it's been that way for a while. You have no idea how happy the "thinking about death" joke in Barbie made me, because a) it was funny, and matched my mental state perfectly and b) gave me a lot of cover to joke about it all summer. So thank you, Uncontrollable Thoughts of Death Barbie, you're a life saver.

James Petrosky: Somewhat related to liars for Jesus are liars for other spiritual causes. Mediums, channelers, seyances, ghost hunters, it's all evidence free nonsense, and they do tremendous harm to people undergoing grief by giving them a false hope that can never, ever be realized. If there is somehow an afterlife that can communicate back to the living, I promise you I'll never, ever give these dangerous frauds the time of day. I can be a stubborn person, and this is the thing I'm most stubborn about, so you can be sure I'll hold to it.

Because we live in something approaching a techno dystopia, it's possible to train a large language model on someone's social media history to create a computer program that can write and speak like you can. Maybe there's not enough information available for me. Almost certianly I'm not important enough for this treatment. But if this is done, and it's done well enough to be convincing, the output program is also not me. It's just an actor, playing a role. The same as a spiritualist, they just learn their script from different sources.