Surrounded by Comedians...
- timandcloe
- Apr 22
- 7 min read
Updated: Apr 22
Cycle 2 has definitely kept the physical punches coming.
Oddly, though, I’ve seemed to cope better with those this time around than I have with the ego jabs I’ve also been receiving.
You see, I’ve somehow found myself surrounded by these so-called wannabe comedians who seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves… at my expense.
Let me explain.
This cycle began with one of my favourite oncology nurses - someone with whom I already share a mutual hatred of random nipple hairs (a wormhole you do not want to go down ) - deciding to affectionately coin me “Pelican” after observing the way I take tablets during treatment day.
In my defence, I do take them one at a time. Painstakingly.
But apparently, it’s the method that sealed it: head back, mouth full of water, followed by a slight wobble of the head and throat as I attempt to gullet them down.
Okay look, I am aware I am not good at medication. My GP and my now-absent-but-previously-very-much-there thyroid will confirm this. There is clearly a mental block involved.
But Pelican? Really?
I mean, I guess it could be worse. I could have been nicknamed Cloe “Making This Harder Than Chemotherapy Itself” or “Defeated by the Least Threatening Part of This Entire Situation” Nickoll.
But still. There are limits.
Not that it mattered, because following my new rebrand, I was expected to introduce myself before each chemo bag was attached as: “Cloe K…..n 'Pelican' Nickoll.
…(A terrible middle name I’m not taking feedback on right now.)
Somehow, though, these pill theatrics were not the end of their taunts for the day.
No. There quickly became a shared consensus between the chemo centre staff and Tim that my newly purchased green tracksuit - chosen over the chocolate option left sitting on my dresser (a decision I now deeply regret) - was giving strong Prisoner/Wentworth energy, with the singlet underneath sealing its fate.
What followed was a fully committed spiral, with everyone, including Tim, disappearing down an internet rabbit hole to compare me to various incarcerated characters and current residents of Bandyup Women’s Prison.
They were thorough. Enthusiastic. Unnecessarily detailed in their comparisons.
All while I lied there, watching on, with absolute wonder as to how I had been so lucky to have been landed with this winning support team.
“I’ve somehow found myself surrounded by so-called comedians who seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves…”
And yet, that still wasn't the worst of it for the day.
No, no. I did that all by (or to) myself.
Because the pièce de résistance came when, in a moment hovering somewhere between instinct and very poor judgement, I felt compelled to reassure everyone (and the entire chemo suite), after someone suggested my cow socks might be stolen by my fellow “inmates”, that I:
“could just hide them in my prison pocket!”
Oof.
It arrived far too quickly for me to intercept.
A sentence I would very much like to withdraw from the record, but which has now secured its place in my personal hall of shame - and in the minds of the oncology staff who took great delight in my declaration for the remaining seven hours I was still hooked up and unable to leave.
And if you don’t know what a prison pocket is, kids, then I do not suggest you Google it.
Let’s just say it isn’t a pretty, or appropriate, place for hiding things.
Alas though, in an attempt not to be jaded by that entire experience, I stupidly (again) wore the same tracksuit to my doctors appointment later that week for my next ovaries implant.
In an apparent effort at reassurance, my wonderful GP told me I didn’t look like a hardened criminal at all. No, nothing of the sort.
Nice guy, right?
No - but rather I looked like “a member of the Australian breakdancing team.”
Ouch. Oddly, that landed worse. Thanks, Raygun. 😏
Perhaps I should just be glad that neither of them at least likened my green attire to Squid Game, which, honestly, would feel a little too on the nose.
You know, fighting for our lives and all…
But thankfully my GP didn't linger on the attire subject too long, as we somehow moved quickly on to discussing possible post-surgery breast names if I were to remove only one breast - hypothetically:
“Speed Hump,” “Dromedary,” “Uni-boob,” “Half-set,” and “Limited Edition.”
After due consideration, we both however agreed that removing both breasts was still the best course of action. Solely for the nickname purposes, of course.
I must however give credit where it’s due though, as my GP did not allow me to monopolise the humiliation entirely.
We also paused to reflect on Tim’s uncanny ability to go weak at the knees in medical settings, as he sat by my bedside waiting for the BBQ skewer to be inserted into my stomach fat roll, which was annoyingly gripped so easily.
Like the time I was in the RPH Burns Unit with 10% of my skin missing after a pot of boiling water was knocked from the stovetop - lying exposed - while staff somehow abandoned me to tend to him because he felt faint, warm, and a little clammy.
Umm, hello. Third-degree burns patient. Still here. insert eye roll.
Or the time, after eight hours of active labour, he was handed the scissors to cut the umbilical cord of our newborn son, only for his face to drain so dramatically I had to take them off him, bend over, and do it myself.
He was labouring for work at the time and apparently could no longer look at cords or conduit the same. insert second eye roll here.
So that was fun.
But anyway - where was I? Who is next?
Oh yes.
My close colleagues, thankfully, have also maintained their standards this cycle, continuing to send entirely inappropriate GIFs to the point where my Teams account is now actively drafting its own complaint to HR.
My family and friends have all contributed too.
As since the whole head shave and wig moment, I’ve been compared to monks, a slightly aggressive baby bird, Gollum, and - on a good day - Voldemort; and at my lowest, a hairy potato with the physical presence of her unshaven legs. Thanks, Mum, for your ongoing commitment to linking everything back to your Irish heritage - always with a side of discomfort. ✊
They have been brutal.
All of them.
And all I can say is thank God for panty liners, because there have been a few close calls with the amount of fluid I’m getting through at the moment.
Because despite everything this cycle has thrown at me, I have laughed. A lot. A ridiculous amount.
Mostly at my own expense.
And it has been… unexpectedly great.
There’s something oddly comforting in the normality of it all.
Even as I start to look more like the “cancer chic” stereotype - slightly more fragile, slightly more delicate, mildly bruised around the edges - the people around me refuse to play along.
They don’t soften. They don’t tiptoe.
They just continue, taking the piss as always.
Whether that be the oncology nurses, who are comedic angels, balancing warmth and humour while calmly hooking up intimidating black-wrapped IV bags filled with cytotoxic (cell-killing) drugs designed to destroy all rapidly dividing cells - be it the good (bone marrow, digestive tract lining, nails, skin, etc.), the bad (chin whiskers, backs of knee hairs…), or the very ugly (those cancer mother…truckers and my hairlip follicles).
Or my GP, who always stays firmly in my corner, making every appointment, every jab, every difficult conversation feel just a little lighter.
Or my dear colleagues, friends and family who all continue to treat me exactly as they always have.
With them, there is no forced gentleness. No performative softness.
Just sarcasm, as nature intended.
They're absolute jerks and yet I love them for it.
For still seeing me properly. For refusing to let my cancer excuse me from the usual ridicule. For keeping me laughing, normal, and entirely myself through it all.
And I hope it doesn't end anytime soon.
Though, to be clear, their insults and dad jokes still need work... 😐
“They don’t soften. They don’t tiptoe. They just continue, taking the piss as always.”
Oh, and to keep you updated - Tim’s Chemo Word Challenge has increased by only one this week.
“Doodle.”
It was however so poorly inserted into conversation that it triggered a full interrogation from the nurse, who became convinced he had a tattoo of one and insisted on seeing it after noticing my reaction.
We explained.
And...long story short - she has somehow now joined in on the game, contributed her own words (“no, you cannot use it to call your colleague a giraffe”), and appointed herself Tim’s ultimate wing-woman.
Oh. Dear. God...
Send help for Cycle #3.
Happy snaps from Cycle #2 below:
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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