I’d Rather be a Forest Than Asleep: Yes I Wood, If I Could, I Surely Wood

People sometimes say, “I can’t complain”, but they rarely mean it. Seems to me that one can usually complain, unless one has lost one’s tongue in some terrible trumpeting accident or can’t find a suitable stick.

There are many ways to complain. One can point one’s fingers and frown. One might arrange tickling, biting, pinching, scratching or judicious bloodshed, depending on the scope and conviction of one’s complaint. Or one might sit muttering sagely in the corner working on the orientation and sheer bushiness of one’s eyebrows. This last we might call the curmudgeon technique, and I can tell you that it requires many long years of practice to perfect, although the effort seems entirely worthwhile.

Ultimately, it is in the nature of a ‘complaint’ that one patiently explains to a gaggle of ignorant others, precisely what is wrong. It is almost one’s duty to explain to others what is wrong. One sees what is wrong and either one must ignore the wrongness or one must decide that someone should do something about the wrong.

There are lots of examples. “The sky is falling, please shut up so I can take a nap” might help bring about a more beatific acceptance of impending doom and spare others suffering. “You are an idiot please go away.” Is a perfectly reasonable way to remove a disturbing influence from an otherwise placid environ. Even something as simple as “My foot hurts, please step off”, are all reasonable ‘complaints’ thoughtfully intended to improve the world for oneself and others.

In almost every case, nothing improves, the wrongness cannot be defeated unless one explains to someone in a position to do something that they should do something. I’m reasonably sure this falls into the realm of civic duty, and I think there is a saying about evil prospering when good men stand by and whatnot. (I can’t remember if the good men were giggling or not, but the meaning of the social axiom is pretty solid either way.)

If the world is full of wrongness and it is one’s duty to inform others about wrongness, then when one says, “One cannot complain”, surely that cannot be what one means.

So this brings me back to my onc farm…

Just in case anyone has forgotten, ‘Chemotherapy’ is a form of chemical warfare conducted inside my abdomen employing some very nasty toxic irritants (WMD) and a surfeit of ‘rescue drugs’ designed to protect my various pink wiggly bits from the WMD. The process might easily be deemed in violation of the Geneva Convention… if the Oncs had ever had the status and forethought to sign the Geneva Convention. Just in case anyone feels bad for the oncs, bear in mind that they are able in the course of their final lament to generate what could easily be called the winter of our content, to say nothing of the collateral damage caused by the WMD and ‘rescue’ drugs themselves.

After the first two ‘cycles’ of chemotherapy my oncs (whose names were Book and Wash) had actually merged (like a giant amoeba) and increased in size by 50%. This looks like ‘progress’ only from the point of view of the amoeba. Not that I’m complaining… I’m an artist… I’m meant to suffer… One only has to look at my choice in business associates to see that. However, given that the oncologists had picked ‘scan & hack’ as a first choice and WMD as a second choice, and given that the different ‘protocols’ of WMD are administered in order of probable efficacy. Seeing the complete failure of the first (and best) two options out of four sounds like a good time to take a longish nap… or complain… not that I’m complaining.

So… let’s try another protocol. Call it ‘second best’. You drive an hour to the clinic get four hours of chemotherapy and drive home, and you do this for five consecutive days (a working week) then you get two weeks off and start over. Let’s try this a couple of times and see what shakes out. Well… at least I don’t have to go back to Area 51 and spend the night… Not that I’m complaining. Surprise, surprise… it works… after two less than enjoyable cycles, the mega Bookwash onc is about half its former size. How did that work?

However, every silver lining has its cloud (not that I’m complaining.) That means more chemotherapy, and, oddly enough, as I get better, I seem to feel worse… although I can’t complain.

When I say, “I can’t complain”, what I mean is: “well, I could, but I’m reasonably certain it would do me no good at all”. Either that, or I’m not sure to whom the complaint should properly be addressed.

This afternoon I took a nap. I dreamed that I was learning to teleport myself a few paces at a time by clapping my hands, so that a good round of applause might get me to Seattle and back. I also dreamed of a crystal case that would cure all disease, including cancer. As I was climbing in, I woke up. Then I realised I’d forgotten to ask the price. I expect there was a price.

Not that I’m complaining.