Puffing Philly

I was in at the hospital this morning having respiratory function checks ahead of next week's round two of chemotherapy.

They are checking to make sure that one of the cytotoxin drugs - Bleomycin - hasn't adversely affected my lung capacity (which it occasionally can do).

Most test results suggested it hasn't caused any problems. (Note: Lance Armstrong opted not to have Bleomycin during his testicular cancer treatment because he didn't want to risk any lung capacity reduction because his sporting/financial future obviously depended on a super set of blow bags.)

However, while sitting inside the test bubble/box I nearly popped out a little fart* while I was huffing and puffing. Had to do everything in my power to stop from giggling uncontrollably.

Another fun little life experience to file away.

Pee

*Speaking of farts (and I do a lot), yesterday I was in 'The Warehouse' (the Kiwi version of 'Costco') and all alone in a DVD aisle when a female retail assistant walked by and clearly released a proverbial 'silent but violent' air biscuit. It was rancid. More toxic than my post-chemo blasts. She then left me all alone in the aisle again, struggling with strangulation at the hands of her pungent, floating pooh flakes. Obviously I had no choice but to vacate the aisle in case someone entered the space and thought it was me. Which I wasn't prepared to risk. From the safety of the next aisle I watched for a few minutes as others entered the chemical spill zone and themselves struggled with the fumes. Hilarious. Finally, with a copy of 'Happy Days: Season One' and 'Rebel Without A Cause' in my hot little hands I headed to the sales counter where Miss Massive-Stink-Arse smiled and served me. I couldn't bring myself to say it, but was dying to suggest I get a discount on account of the stress her feral sphincter had caused me (and others). Yuk!