I have an elaborate method of making lists which includes categories and subcategories. My friends have been mocking me my whole life, but they also recognize my uncanny efficiency. Like many of you, I am managing a house with five people who are all going different directions. Truthfully, I would still maniacally make lists even if I was single and had only myself and my dishwasher to manage.
Most of the categories are routine such as “Gro Sto”, “Office tasks”, “follow-up”, “errands”, “Target”. I now have a To Do List for Cancer, which strikes me as absurd. It includes items such as “shop for robe”. I keep imagining myself as Nora Desmond walking around the house in a lavish velvet robe and stylish satin turban. I suspect this may not mesh well with wound maintenance but if I have to feel like crap I may as well look fabulous. Another item is “finish holiday shopping”. This sort of sends terror down my spine. I actually have about half of my holiday shopping completed, but I’d like to go into the hospital knowing I had it all mostly handled. I know everyone will forgive me not getting cards out or finishing all my shopping when I’m recovering from The Cancer, but I sort of have a hang-up with perfectionism. Cancer is seriously time consuming. “Arrange child care”. “Child caregiver schedule”. “Create Medical bill file”. “Update demise documents”. “Return calls”.
To Do List For Cancer
And then there are the unscheduled items that arise. Just got a call from my doctor who wants me to come in tomorrow for another ultrasound and possibly a biopsy of the left breast instead of doing it in conjunction with the lumpectomy in two weeks. It’s no big deal. Just four or five hours I hadn’t counted on being at Barnes Jewish Hospital tomorrow. It’d be different if I had a family that depended on me. But The Cancer beckons like an obnoxious impatient drunk guy about to fall off his bar stool at the sports bar. The shouting fool demands a Dos Equis across the room to the waitress. See how I keep weaving “waiting” into my posts? I’m the waitress in this scenario, by the way. The waitress with the boobs at which everyone can’t quit staring. And Cancer is the Obnoxious Fool. Fat drunk bastard. I’m going to kick his a$$ when I see him later in the parking lot at the end of the night and shake him until he leaves a tip.