Early to Bed

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.

Still Standing - Sort Of

Oy. Three days of feeling like you've been plowed into by a truck. Maybe I can just sleep through most of it. I decide to stay in bed until almost 10am - an unheard of event. Then I actually sat in a chair and didn't do anything but rest. I fussed a bit about the paper I need to write which is due Tuesday, but there isn't anything I can do about it. It will have to wait. Hopefully I can address it in a day or two when I am feeling better.

Sugar climbed into the chair with me, and curled up with a sigh. She is moping probably because I am none too active. Together we close our eyes and drift in and out of sleep. I can only tell that time is passing because the sunshine and shadows change angles. While I dream, I let the chemo sweep any cancer cells out of my system. Today I make no progress forward. I also do not slide backwards. I stand still, treading time while my chassis undergoes maintenance.

I am aware of the presence of God touching my heart, restoring my confidence, pulling me back from the precipice of darkness. I rest, I wait quietly, I receive the strengthening of God, I allow it to wash over me, feeling the tenderness and positive encouragement. Soul maintenance. Mind renewal. Bits of Psalms float in and out of my sleepy consciousness. God is my rock. God is my strength. God is my joy. God is my wholeness.

I do not move, I do not work. I simply inhale the restoration. It is good. I am blessed.

Chemo

Here we go again. I am in no particular hurry to arrive at the cancer clinic. I bring my comfortable big pink bag that Pastor Sherri gave me at the beginning of this leg of my journey with cancer. I am wise enough now to know not to bring a lot of reading, and though I still believe that keeping my mind working in mathematical patterns is important, I also know I will likely rest a lot. So the bag is not as crammed as it has been in the past. I make sure I have a warm hat and a sweater that buttons. And plenty of space for port access from my tee shirt neck.

I am ready for feeling a bit crummy and tired for a few days, a small price to pay for continued absence of any symptoms of cancer. Today I decide I will just be quiet and peaceful. I will breathe deeply and concentrate on all the many many things I am grateful for. A hot shower to relax my muscles. A warm soothing cup of ginger green tea. A friendly lick from Sugar before I leave. A dependable car to drive. A son to drive me to treatment. I am so blessed. Not to even mention the insurance coverage that will take care of this little $10,000 treatment.

The nurse is one I know and like. She hands me the little white plastic medicine cup with my management pills and I obediently down them one at a time, taking big swigs of the cold water. She accesses my port quickly and efficiently, hooking me up to fluids as the yukky feeling from the meds begins to hit. It's rather like drawing a dull gray curtain over your world. Everything becomes a bit foggy and blurred. You feel a tad headachy and sluggish, and you have to fight through it to think.

I read a bit, then my Rituxan arrives. A second nurse verifies that this is me and this is my meds before my nurse can hang the bag and start the drip. My oncologist upped the dosage of the Decadron to help lessen the impact later, and we have agreed not to go full bore with the dosage administration. The nurse suggests that it is not the speed at which I get the Rituxan, but just that my body has been adjusting and each reaction may indeed be different. We still go slow. They are wonderful at humoring my half baked ideas. Especially when it doesn't really matter to them one way or the other.

I tell myself that its just a few days. I will bounce back quickly now that I am recovering from the main impact. Just be patient. Let the toxins roll in, kill the enemy, and roll out dragging those cancer cells with them. Let it pass quickly.

Soon Kiel appears and its time to go home. Last time I had a window of feeling OK before the real slump hit. Maybe because I took the meds so quickly. Today I do not have that window. I am struggling before I even get to the car. The tiredness, the blah's, the drained feelings are already in full swing. Go home. Sleep it off. You have a whole weekend to throw this. I settle back into the car seat and close my eyes. We will be home soon. I am blessed to have a home where I can be comfortable and where I have help. Yup. It's all good. It's all good.