Cancer sucks and so does the cure.
When they say the cure is worse than the disease they’re right sometimes. Not that I’d stop chemo and let the cancer take over my body, but you know what? Chemo is positively medieval.
It’s not much of a leap for me to envision some hooded character in a dungeon full of the medieval equivalent of blue nogahyde recliners, inserting sharpened quills into various veins and dripping “just the right amount” of raw poison through sheep gut from a leather bag hung from a literal rack. I can see it. The victims are slowly tortured to the brink of insanity and near death over months and months to the delight of the evil landowner, all the while being told this is good for them.
And, speaking of torture, what is with those blue nogahyde recliners in chemo “infusion rooms”? They’re ugly, they’re uncomfortable, and they’re enourmous. Someone designed them to fit Andre the Giant, his backpack, and half his family. When someone my size sits in one, it makes her feel like a toddler being put in timeout in daddy’s chair.
When I had my first round of chemo, we had a navy blue recliner in our living room. When I finished chemo, I had to get it out of my sight. We tossed it over the balcony on the front of our house and hauled it to the dump. That was a lovely, cathartic experience.
Number of chemo patients likely to visit Reclinerland or La-Z-Boy Furniture Gallery = Zero.
If it weren’t for the thought of all those poor blue nogas who have given their hydes for cancer patients, I would go medieval on every recliner I see. As it is, I’m stuck in one of those danged recliners once a week with a very solicitious nurse performing the torture duties with the best of intentions in her heart.
Surely there’s a better, more effective way to fight this disease. Someone work on that, will ya?