For y'alls' amusement, I offer a few snapshots from the front lines of cancer/steroids/edema/covid recovery during snow time in the South.
First off, I'm wearing a fucking home-made kilt. My legs swole up, and if I put the compression socks on, legs go down but balls blow up like a grapefruit. Then if I wear pants of course the nutsack gets raw from rubbing against fabric. So right before I actually started pumping blood from scraped Balzac, I grabbed a big-ass towel, cinched it up with a belt, and I can walk around the house not in pain or with Mrs. Canecutter helpfully letting me know my balls are swollen up. All hail Clan MacTowel.
I don't have any reason to step outside, because we got a couple inches of snow. Contrary to myth, we do have a few snowplows here, but there's nowhere really to go. And you ever hear how a squirrel acts like it's his first day being a squirrel? Replace "squirrel" with "Alabama Driver," and you won't be far wrong.
They are gradually cutting my steroids, about 5mg/week. I want to throw all the damn things in the creek and see if 3-eyed fish spawn there, but I understand the assignment so I stfu and comply.
I finally figured out how to take better blood pressure readings on my remote monitoring system so the nice nurses quit suggesting I pop into the clinic to be held against my will while Flesh Eating Bacteria roam the halls. That's good.
May all y'alls' cancer cells flop back and forth on the floor, and die.