The dirty little secret about being sick is that it’s a bit like war: long stretches of boredom punctuated by periods of abject terror.
I’m in a boring period. It’s day six since the first chemotherapy and I’m still nauseated. I seem to be a champion at nausea. Ask anyone who knew me when I was pregnant. I keep thinking that I can go without those three anti-nausea drugs until I realize that I absolutely cannot. The husband and the kid scold me for trying. “Mom! You just had chemotherapy! The nurses said not to be tough!” But I’d just like to have a week or 10 days of normalcy before November 18 and the next go-round. Thanksgiving is coming. I’ve got stock and pie crust to make. There are bread cubes to dry. Old habits die hard. We are NOT having Stove Top stuffing for Thanksgiving.
I am still tired. Normally, it’s a challenge for me to sit still for five minutes. Yesterday, I barely moved from the couch. I tried reading, but that was too tiring. So I listened to an audiobook for most of the day, Bill Bryson’s new history of private life. It’s a funny thing to sprawl like a slug and listen to how difficult it was to make candles or do laundry 100 years ago.
My bowels are still doing flip flops. Haven’t had this much GI excitement since I ate fiery beef salad on a Thai train several decades ago.
My hair is still dirty. Yes, I want to keep it. Yes, I understand that even with the cold cap, I’ve got to be very gentle with my hair follicles. But I’ve always had an oily scalp. I think today’s the day for washing that gunk right out of my hair.
The anti-nausea meds have kicked in. Time to hit the shower. It’s an exciting life.