About a year after I left my ex, I started a 12-week program for abused women.  There were weeks when I sat in that room – looking at those other fourteen women – and thought to myself “I don’t belong here.”

Some of the physical abuse stories were horrific.  I had only been physically hurt a few times.  I was only starting to comprehend that abuse comes in many flavours; physical, emotional, verbal, financial, sexual and so on.

One of the most memorable lessons as part of that program was a discussion about anger and your family of origin.  The instructor had us list out how each of our parents expressed anger.

My Dad was a very peaceful and passive man.  I never saw him extremely angry.

My Mom was a spitfire.  She’d only take so much and go off like a firecracker.  Big, huge sparks that died down quickly without much damage.

I am a product of both of their “anger signatures” … I’m quite peaceful (Love you, Dad!).  Until you cross me.  Then you better run, stop, drop and roll.  My tongue is venomous (Thanks, Mom!) and when I am done … I AM DONE. 

Let the bridges I burn light the way!  Screw that shit about not burning bridges  … say what I feel and get the fvck out of my way!

Like my father, I usually get up on the right side of the bed.  Every Saturday summer morning in Vermont, my Dad and I would get up at the crack of dawn and go for a walk by the lake.  We’d pick wild blueberries and raspberries along the mountain path.  Mom was awake by the time we got back, and would fix us breakfast with those wild berries.  Pretty idyllic childhood.

But I have my ugly moments.

I am far from perfect.  I have spent years and years perfecting my faults and making sure they are exquisitely honed with the skill of a master.  I have a Masters in Procrastination.  (My son has his PhD in Procrastination … funny how that works, eh?!)

I rarely have a black cloud cranky day … but hey, I am human. And I have cancer.  And today was one of those days.

The day started off with a positive affirmation that “Sometimes the bad things that happen in our lives put us directly on the path to the best things that will ever happen to us.”

Yeah.  Right.  Whatever.  I was feeling it.  Bright and cheery.  Then life happened.

My hair hurts.  The stubble remaining after my Ciao Bella head shave pierces my brain in some kind of death by a thousand cuts needle torture.  I have tender spots on the top my head.  I asked the Triple Negative Breast Cancer (TNBC) facebook group what to do about the pain, and most ladies have shaved it close with a razor.  But … that is technically not allowed due to the risk of a cut and infection.  So I tried Option B … rolling a lint roller over my head.  It hurt like fvck … but it did grab some of my hair.  I am sure all of the stubble will fall out a few days after my next chemo infusion on May 2.  Thankfully I have three packs of 6 lint rollers in the closet.  You can’t have a Husky and not have a lint roller in every room, every office and every car!


The exhaustion is unreal … and I had to get my butt to the hospital for 10:30 and didn’t leave until 2:30.  I was tired and hungry and there was a torrential rainstorm.  I planned on eating in between my Oncology Consult and my Genetics Consult … but Dr. F was running late.  Then I remembered I had to pick up my pre-chemo drugs for tomorrow, so I ran back down to the Oncology Pharmacy to spend $50 (Thank you, Sunlife!) on steroids and anti-nausea medications. They forgot the third so I have to pick up that tomorrow.  I can barely walk another step because I am sooooooo tiiiiiiired.

My Oncologist told me that they were dropping my dose 20% … and that scares me.  I don’t want this cancer to lurk in any corner of my body.  I want its fucking bridges burned!

My head hurt.  I had my water bottle with me and drank litres of water, but hadn’t eaten since early morning – I was getting HANGRY.

Matt and I grabbed burgers.  I spilled ketchup.  He was almost late for work.  I had to walk the dogs.  Then I had to go grocery shopping.  My toe hurts from a weekend in four-inch heels (don’t you dare tell me it’s self-inflicted!).  I dropped the carton of eggs.

I carried a heavy grocery bag on my left arm and practically ripped my PICC line out.  I danced around – on that sore toe – screaming in pain “Fvck!  Fvck!  Fvck!”

And I forgot to do laundry.

There is no chocolate and I won’t be able to eat chocolate for days after chemo, because I can only look at bland carbs like bread.

I bitched at a neighbour about boundaries.

I snarled at the dogs.  And texted a fair warning to my son that I was in a mood.  He still made me dinner.

I am best left alone when in one of these moods. Trying to talk and cajole me out of it usually results in me looking daggers at you …

I had to reread my Night & Day post about not perpetuating my bitchiness.

So I am going to have some pie with whipped cream and say goodnight.


Think of me in exactly twelve hours – 10:30AM – when I sit in The Chair to be poisoned with more chemo.  Toxic state of mind …

Peace out!


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© Lisa Jobson 2017










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