You know, I started writing about how much January blows, and then on my way into the city this morning, I saw a grown man having the time of his life on a swing in some random playground. He kinda looked like a giant kid dressed in a suit. It’s probably his first day back to work after the New Year and he decided to have a little fun before plopping himself down at his cubicle for the next eight hours. Or maybe he just wanted to exercise. Or maybe he’s a man who acts like a child. Who knows.
I’ve been kinda down in the dumps recently. I actually think the holiday festivities made everything, well, a lot less jolly. I realized how I am still very limited in what I do. I decided on Christmas that since it was Jesus’ bday, he would want me to celebrate by eating what I wanted. Salami and other deli meats, raw vegetables, foods that I watched people touch and put back, you know, the usual holiday hors d’oeuvres. And I paid for it with a nasty stomach ache. I didn’t bother asking anyone if they were sick and gave out kisses like they were candy. And I paid for that too, with a cold I can’t seem to kick. I stayed in on New Years, which was depressing, until I saw Mariah Carey’s “performance” and that gave me a giggle. But after that, I decided I had had enough of 2016, and even the Queen of all things Diva-and-Poorly-Fitted-Bodysuits couldn’t escape it’s wrath. So I went to bed before the ball dropped.
I am so over this whole cancer thing. I’m bored. I miss lettuce. I’ve become a hypochondriac (I convinced both myself and my mom that I had a blood clot with the only symptom I had being calf pain. Lol. I’m fine). All I want is a night out with my friends. I’m so sensitive to different smells. My nose is constantly running because all my nose hairs fell out (this is my PA’s theory, and I believe it). I hate that stupid wig. I miss not having to think about the little things.
I sound like such a complainer. But it’s true. It’s all too damn true.
Even though it’s only been two weeks since my last treatment, it’s felt longer for some reason. It felt like I had a break. It’s a cycle though. I go from feeling like crap for the first week, gaining my strength back over the next couple days, then there’s a glimmer of “normalcy” (just enough to make you forget about the fact that you have cancer, until you look in the mirror at your thinning hair and remember you have cancer) and then it’s Tuesday again. Mondays are always bittersweet. It’s probably the day I feel my best, which makes Tuesdays suck even more because I know that feeling well won’t last too long after the cancer-killing cocktail is pushed into my body. So I just really didn’t feel like going today. Can I take a sick day from chemo? Can I use the excuse “the dog ate my homework” to get out of this one? How about I just say “I forgot.”
I was willing to do just about anything to not come today. The swing-man, however, changed my view on this Tuesday. Chemo isn’t something to play around with, it’s not something I get to pick and choose, just like cancer. And skipping a Tuesday would prolong this whole thing even more. And February 28th (the, hopefully, last day of chemo) doesn’t sound so far away.
I don’t know how the first Tuesday of 2017 is going to play out. I don’t know if Judy is here (update: she’s not). I don’t know if we’ll be waiting hours again for chemo to start. I don’t know how my counts will be (update: they’re low). I don’t know what to eat for lunch and it’s only 9am, but I’m hungry. I don’t really know anything, and that scares me. But despite all of this, getting nauseous as soon as I walked through the hospital doors (associative nausea, I think), and crippling pre-chemo anxiety that adds to the nausea, I’ll pretend I’m on that swing. I’ll try and stay positive, and a little naive, atleast until it’s time for chemo happy hour.