Lockjaw. I’m clenching my jaw so tight that my back molars won’t close together. 

I’m not sure if it’s my psychosomatic response to  this ordeal.  As in, every fiber in me would much rather yell obscenities at the top of my lungs at this disease and my fate. but decorum and knowing it won’t help much keeps my mouth closed tight.

Or is lockjaw a side effect?  One of the symptoms listed on the prescription profiles they sent home with me. Joint pain, I remember hearing. only, I expected joint pain in my knees or my elbows.  not my jaw.

Why not call the doctor or the nurse, you ask?  Well, I’m reluctant.  the last time I complained about nausea, I was readily given steroids that make my legs twitch so much I could barely sleep and my stomach growled every two hours. I couldn’t be starving; I felt like I was eating like a horse.

There seems to be a shelf-ful of drugs to help one symptom. only to cause another.

And the truth is: I don’t think I’m going to get through chemotherapy without feeling shitty. I mean, I expect I’m going to feel like crap.  this toxic stuff can’t be doing an overhaul on my living cells without battering me up a bit. So this part of their job–making me feel like silly putty put through a noodle maker–probably is gonna be what it’s gonna be.

I’m making do. Last night, I soaked granola in soy milk for twenty minutes until it was a soggy, easy mess to eat.  at lunch, I crushed stone wheat thins into steaming homemade soup. Who needs teeth?  Or rather, who needs a lot of teeth. Tonight, I sliced the kernels of corn off the cob with a knife and ate them slowly–wiggling them around in my mouth to hit the right innermost molars, the only two that touch in the back of my mouth.

I feel somehow my struggle is a way to fight back, get even, and at least not give in.  like I can handle what I’m being dished, at least as best as I can.

Then again, it’s me at three and a half weeks talking.  I like to sound strong. Because who knows who I will be in two days, let alone two weeks.