A six-mask day

We had our White Elephant Potluck today at work. I found myself not liking sitting so close to people without my mask, as if I've turned into a clean freak. But why should I assume coworkers are going to be any less oblivious to their germ-flinging ways than strangers on a bus or train?

For example, one coworker was sitting right behind me, barely alive, sniffling and obviously very ill. Why were they even at work? Don't they know I have no immunity from the crap they're expectorating?

This cancer's and the behaviors of others are going to turn me, formerly hygenically horrible, into a germaphobe.

During the white elephant gift exchange, the gift I'd chosen was stolen by a coworker. I said "But I have cancer!" It didn't change her decision to steel my gift.

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Today was a six bus/six mask day. One bus into work. After work, two to get to the physical therapist in Bellevue, and three to get home. I surreptisiouly lifted as many masks as I could when I was at the clinic.

The physical therapist measured my left arm's range of motion and the diameter of both arms at various spacings. I've got some goofy-looking exercises to do to increase my arm's ability to work as well as the right arm. Why are physical therapy exercises so strange? Who invents them?

She and I together are going to watch for lymphodema. To avoid developing it, for the rest of my life I can't have blood taken, blood pressure measured, or wear anything tight on my left arm.

A few weeks ago, I cut my hair short in preparation for losing it. A week ago, I dyed it blonde, just to see what it would look like. I've got artist friends lined up to paint with henna tattoos whatever they want on my future bald head. All this has been fun to do and line up.

But now my hair's starting to fall out and it's very hard to take. When I gently run my hand through my hair, there are a lot of hairs laying in my hand.

It's shocking. It's disturbing. It's creepy.