Sunday. I am doing OK. I make it to church, manage to stand upright and smile, participate in the service. But after my duties are complete, I know I will head home and do more resting. That darn paper naggles at the back of my mind, but once again I am helpless to address it. I just go home.
Sugar and I sit together for a bit, but my body feels like it weighs a ton. Moving is taxing. I don't bother to fix lunch. The boys are out and about, doing what kids do. It is more difficult to rest today. I finally admit defeat and go to bed - in the middle of the day. There is no help for it. By my count, this is day three and I ought to be feeling better by now. I am still suffering from the "hit by a mack truck" syndrome.
I roll over and pull my warm hat down over my eyes, relieved at the darkness, hug my hot water bottle, console myself with the knowledge that tomorrow is after the third day I and will be better and back to normal. Sleep it off. Let the chemo finish its work. Tomorrow is resurrection day.
Sugar heaves a big sigh and buries her nose in the blanket. I know just how she feels.
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