My stomach is telling me that I’m hungry, but at my pill pusher appointment today my weight was down 10 pounds.
He also increased my Zoloft 50% because of the depression.
It’s not that I’m trying to lose weight, but it was nice that I didn’t have to do any work.
Waste not, want not: I’ll have the salad tomorrow, which was meant for tonight.
Tonight we’re having coffee and cigarettes because of the cancer.
I wish I could talk to her about it, but all I can do is continue soaking up tears with these tissues.
If the chemo works, I’ll have mom for 3 more years; if not, she could be gone in 3 months.
She’s all I truly have.
We’re smokers, unlike my 2 older sisters. I bet their lungs are screaming:
I told you so.
Mom quit 3 days ago.
I’ll just roll another cigarette. It’ll be my last one… tonight. It helps to curb this ridiculous appetite.
I’m not hungry, but my stomach is grumbling at me… just like my sisters, my doctor, my depression.
All I want is a drink and a joint.
But all I’ll get is this smoke and a few hours of sleep–likely waking to tear soaked sheets, the desire to roll another, drink another, and cry for my mother.