I’m hoping that, after my next bit of news, you’ll have a good and hearty “Are you ‘effing kidding me?” So, get ready. Here’s goes.
I’ve lost my voice. Gone. If Harvey Fierstein got Emma Stone pregnant and she gave birth to a frog, IT would sound better than me. (Although that’s probably the oddest analogy you will EVER read.)
It’s full on laryngitis, also known as “aphonia” which MUST come from someone saying, “Boy, your voice sounds awful, aphonia later.”
If you are keeping score, it now means I have aphonia, epiphora and alopecia. If I’m not mistaken, I think those were Medusa’s daughters.
The doc isn’t sure if the burn-out of my vocal chords is from the chemo itself or from catching a virus from being totally depleted from the chemotherapy. Of course, there’s nothing I can do about it, and no way to know how long it will last.
At this point, it would not surprise me if I woke up one morning with a penis (Kids and clients, stop reading here.) Truly. One day, I’ll wake up with a pecker, call the doc, and he’ll say, “Well, it’s a very rare side effect but it CAN happen. We will have to wait and see if it goes away.” Oh well. At least I could look forward to getting 33 percent higher paychecks and finally be able to pee anywhere I want! Maybe I would become world famous in medical journals for having the first case of “dicphoria” pronounced as in “Here’s a dick for ya.” and better known as chemocock.
Maybe it would be better if I could talk and not type?