Friendship Opiates

I haven't had much to write about lately because luckily nothing has tried to kill me or ruin my life in the last two weeks.  On the contrary, I've had a lot to smile about.  I've just completed 13(!) consecutive days of extraordinary friend hangouts.

I have always prided myself in maintaining abundantly magical friendships, but having cancer has truly solidified how many outstanding people I have on my team.  I've had visits from Kindergarten era BFFs, punk rock era HS BFFs, Anodyne Coffee BFFs, NYU BFFs, Waldorf School BFFs, and used-to-be-Dan's-now-all-mine BFFs.  I've frolicked by the lake, taken super long walks in the sunshine, posed in a rebel photo shoot, gone to the movies, eaten my weight in tacos and falafel and snacks, hung out with cute dogs and cats, gossiped, gone on field trips to the mall, giggled in 4-way FaceTime chats, learned how to weave, laughed my face off, and most notably, gained back 5 lbs of lost hospital weight after eating three NY bagels with butter and cream cheese in 24 hours (cinnamon raisin, everything, and multigrain oat).  I have my incredible friends to thank for these adventures.

In addition to all the visits I've received, I have also had an overwhelming amount of old friends reach out to me from afar via text, email, Facebook, and Instagram.  Like...in the most beautiful way possible.  Friends just asking if I'm doing all right or if I need anything, and just letting me know they are thinking about me.  This is the true blessing that comes with hardship--all the love you have shared with every person you have befriended, reflected back to you at one time.  It's like, whoa, damn, I guess I've lived a good life.  And then your heart explodes. But not literally this time.

What I'd like to conclude after these 13 days of shared experiences with the people I love the most, is that friendship (and warmth, and nature and sunshine) truly are the best forms of medicine.  It feels so fucking good to smile.  So. Good.  I had my second chemo session yesterday, which technically means I'm finishing my first "cycle" this week.  I definitely feel a little wonkier than I did the first round, but that could also have something to do with my extremely poor decision to pound an iced coffee while receiving chemo.  Hot tip: coffee and chemo and menstruation don't bode well for the tiny body.  I think you get my drift.

This is also the week I get to wait for my hair to fall out, which might be hellishly traumatic, I can't tell yet.  I have really enjoyed taking on this buzzcut rebel chick persona.  I'm trying not to go off the deep end, but when the hell else will I have a chance to be so justifiably wild?  I stopped wearing bras (mostly cuz they bother my incision, but we'll pretend it's cuz I burned them all).  I put up a "We Back the Vadge" sign in my yard in response to the neighbors' "We Back the Badge" signs that went up right after all the summertime killings of unarmed black men by the cops.  I have developed quite  a no-nonsense, GFY* attitude toward anything or anyone that isn't pure or true.  I even thought about piercing my septum again when I walked into Body Ritual with some friends last week.  Then I had flashbacks to all my Dutch classmates calling me "De Stier" (the bull) and I changed my mind.  This rebel still has feelings.  If I lose all my hair this week, you'll all just have to settle for my wig personas, which are slightly sweeter than bootstomping, skinhead DLynne.

*GFY is an acronym I'm really trying to make happen: Go F*ck Yourself.  As in, "Mr. President, kindly GFY."