There are nights where I wake up at four in the morning and I feel like I have a huge weight sitting on my chest. (Specifically a portable L.G Smith Corona Standard, circa 1940 in a black case). The intensity of the last four months often surfaces and startles me back into wakefulness. But last night was not one of those nights. Last night is was a slightly lighter weight sitting on me, in the form of a black cat named Eddie, but he still woke me up.
So while I lay in bed stroking the 19 lb cat, I did a bit of math. My wig cost me $1,600 dollars. That’s a lot of money. Haircuts, and bit of my fake natural colour, cost me $180 every six weeks. (Also a lot of money, but I love Cosmo). Considering I won’t be going to a salon till early spring, I’m saving about $1,000 in salon fees. That still leaves $600. Since my operation on August 3rd, I’ve had to drastically reduce my wine consumption. At the moment, I’m reduced to about 3 oz of wine a week. Compared to the amount I prefer to enjoy, that’s really very paltry. So I’ve probably already saved hundreds of dollars in wine. Our blue box seems neglected. When I walk by it, empty-handed yet again, it looks at me as if to say, “How long do you intend to keep this up?”
So that’s a good question, blue box. Am I allowed to drink? When I asked my oncologist, she made a little face and said “Mmm, probably not a good idea”. To me that isn’t a no. It was more like a possibility. So perhaps I should ask my Russian Nurse. While high on Percocet, I asked him if I could have an occasional glass of wine, and he glared at me, and said ‘Abzoloodley”.
By 4:45 a.m. I felt happy with my equations. In fact, without booze and salons, I may even be coming out ahead. But I still have to get some more opinions about drinking. With dreams of finding an Italian oncologist, I let the sweet cat on my chest purr me back to sleep.