Some things finally become clear

I've probably posted two hundred items since 2005 about my lousy love life. I keep thinking I am done posting about it, especially now. But a new insight is occasionally gained, and I feel led to share it.

If you've read the previous posts on this topic, you know that I'm almost sixty and still waiting for a willowy, ethereal hippie chick type who physically resembles Stevie Nicks circa 1975 and who embodies the character traits of Quan Yin, the east Asian bodhisattva of compassion.

Needless to say, I never met anyone like that. And the ones who came close were looking for someone a little more interesting and entertaining than me.

But looking back on it, I see now that I wasn't looking for a relationship. I never had the emotional energy for that, as women who've actually had relationships with me can attest.

All I was looking for someone who could soothe the pain of my depression when I was feeling it. And when I wasn't depressed, I was perfectly content being alone, and didn't want Stevie Nicks/Quan Yin to be around at all.

I was totally focused on my emotional needs as I perceived them. Her emotional needs? My fantasy woman wouldn't have any, except to make me feel better. That was all I wanted.

And although I understand it now, I can't say it's changed my attitude. It's still self-centered and unrealistic, but it's still what I want.

And, of course, will never have.

Cancer update

Time for an update, I suppose.

I am now three sessions into chemotherapy. I have, probably, three more to go before a CT scan to determine if the chemo has had any effect on the tumors.

My chemo regimen consists of three and a half hours in the infusion center every other Monday, followed by 48 hours with a take-home pump.

The infusion center is a large room filled with big, comfortable recliners, staffed by oncology nurses. Every other Monday, staff 'bartenders' prepare the mix of chemicals I receive, ranging from vitamins to steroids to actual chemotherapy drugs. I settle into one of the big chairs with my iPad, and the nurses feed me one bag after another, intravenously.

But it's the take-home pump, if I understand correctly, that carries the main event: fluorouracil, which has been the treatment of choice for colon cancer for fifty years.

I wear the pump until Wednesday. And by Wednesday, I feel like hammered shit, which continues until the weekend. I sleep, I throw up, I watch TV, and that's about all the activity for which I am able to muster any energy.

The first week was bad, the second week not as bad, and the third week somewhere in between weeks one and two.

And none of it has been as bad as the recovery after the surgery.

On paper, I look great. My blood counts are within normal range, and actually improved between weeks two and three. My immune system thus far seems to be holding up well.

I spent a few weeks obsessing about what seemed like my certain impending death, and I have gotten past that. I still think about it, but not like I used to. That's partly because my current oncologist seems much more optimistic about my situation than did his predecessor.

I think the cat just peed down the air conditioning vent, so I'm going to sign off for now.