A while back, we discovered that our fight wasn’t over.
The sniveling belly bully is still around.
A new plan was devised.
We are going to punch him harder this time.
The plan kept getting put off because of weird random medical stuff.
But…the time has come!!
We punched the belly bully in the face.
We had treatment this last week, I’ve had a needle in my chest for seven days.
That’s always awesome.
Do you remember atomic fire balls? Those super hot cinnamon candies that lit up your mouth?
My face has totally looked like one of those!
During the last week, I’ve been back on a cocktail of chemo, steroids, fluids, and anti nausea meds.
I haven’t got much sleep, okay…I haven’t really gotten any sleep.
A delightful combo platter of pain and potty has kept me up.
I go to the bathroom every forty three minutes (seriously! I counted!)
After a two month hiatus, the chemo brain is back. That means that I’m a special kind of clueless. I’m extremely loopy today, to the point that the biggest decision I’m able to make is “what socks should I wear?”
I’m seeing things that aren’t there.
If I stare at the bathroom floor it starts to rotate and sparkle…once again, I’m not making this up.
I have the uninspiring dexterity of an intoxicated walrus. I’m tempted to wrap myself in bubble wrap so that I don’t cause harm to myself or anyone else.
Today, there was an ornery, elderly lady in the chair next to me at the infusion suite. She is eighty three years old and despite a fifty year age difference, she has a fairly obvious crush on our nurse.
That’s because he’s kind…and he’s built like a Viking.
It was a good day for her.
She was doing good until she went to the bathroom.
Everything changed.
She suddenly had problems breathing and communicating.
The Doctor came in and EMS was called.
She was taken to the emergency room.
We hurt for her.
She is someone’s mom, grandma, great grandma.
Cancer is stupid.
So tomorrow I go in and get a super shot that is supposed to boost my white blood count up. I will also get to take some tests (blood count and pee in a sippy cup).
This all leads me to the conclusion that it’s time to pull up my pirate pants, batten the hatches and again declare no quarter.
ARGHHH!
carbonated joy 