Fox-Colored Paint Chips

How are you? We ask people this every day. How ya doin'? How are the kids? Howzit? How are you.....Lately people ask me this question and I'll say things like, you know, "Fine," or "Hanging in there," or something like that depending on the extent of our relationship and how closely they are associated with THE NEWS and whatnot. Then they'll be all "No, really, how are you?" and they'll look at me very seriously as if perhaps I didn't understand the gravity of the situation and I will reply "Oh, good, fine, you know, getting by, livin' the dream..." and then with all the earnestness in their hearts they'll say something like "Are you doing alright?" What am I supposed to say? "I'm not dead yet," or "Better step back actually, the chemo is leaking through my shoes," Heavens sake! I'm convinced sometimes people love a car wreck. I'm never quite sure how to handle these situations. No one really wants the details three drinks in on a Saturday night but I will offer them up. I have no qualms. There are gory details. I could go on for days....
I go back and forth. In the same way I want people to know about how fucked up this particular version of breast cancer is and am willing to tell anyone who will listen about it there are also some days I want to worry about something less ridiculously weighty and scary. I want to worry about normal shit again like what color are we going to paint the bathroom darling? Or did we remember to pay the water bill? The importance of haircuts and outfits, though not really ever my thing to begin with, have been completely upstaged by really annoying bullshit like metastatic skin involvement and cytoxin therapy.
I've been away from the computer for awhile. I do this sometimes. I don't have a job that requires me to use it so I kind of forget about it on purpose and pretend like its 1993 again. The chemo kind of knocked me out this week and I'm pissed about it. I feel like I'm letting folks down when it knocks me on my ass. I want to fight this thing. All I want to do is get in a ring and fight this thing. I want to beat it bloody, rip its cheeks off with my teeth, tear at its eyes, break it in two. I want there to be some measure of success. I want there to be some sort of winning not just ragged victory by virtue of getting through. That just seems so pussy to me. "We'll shoot all this poison in you and see how long you can still get out of bed and function like a normal person" does not seem like a proactive plan to me!! I can't do anything. Things are done to me, through me, in my veins, over my heart, under my skin, silently, strangely. I'm used to fighting- whoever, whatever,whenever, let's go! When these strange things knock me down I get mad and just start throwing punches at the shadows on the wall. I want it to be over.
I saw my fox again. The night before I was diagnosed I saw a fox trotting down Ward Parkway, on the sidewalk mind you, at 4am. That's just weird. I've seen her three times since. She's always got something in her mouth. Apparently she's a fan of snacks. I didn't grow up with foxes. Squirrels were a big deal when I was growing up (citygrrl). Foxes are new for me. I've done a little nosing around in regards to what they're supposed to mean. Some folks say they're the spiritual manifestation of dead relatives. I'm not sure about that. My people weren't very fox-like. They were sort of big and German. Some folks say they're tricksters and are meant to bring joy. They represent cunning, longevity, family. All good things. I just think she's awesome. There is a fox living where she shouldn't, getting by, hanging out. Maybe she's been there all along. It's strange what I see now.