Post 2: 3 Days to Chemo
Only three days remain. I’m lying here like a fish in a bucket, waiting for processing.
I’m in bed actually, lying in is warmth, but not as warm as when my darling’s here beside me. That could change in three days if I have to isolate from her.
My darling works in an ER, a room full of broken people needing to be fixed. They bring their families along with their ailments and wait patiently with the others. All day, from silly o’clock, she does what she can. I’m at home, awaiting a hug when she returns—but now there are new rules…
She says that in order for me to stay strong for the 18 weeks of chemo, she has to first wash and change. Only then will I get that hug.
This is my life now. Apparently, I’m ill. I need rules. I need a safe environment. I need to eat well—if I can. I need to avoid infections.
I hate this bus.
I’ve got an electric digital thermometer and a blood pressure monitor for starters. These are now de rigueur for the modern, radioactive immunosuppressed.
It just gets worse the more I learn. My pee is dangerous for a while each cycle. I will have my own toilet. I have to double flush. What are they giving me that turns me into a walking danger zone? Surely this isn’t fair.
Salads are on the naughty list—out, in favour of small, tasty cooked meals. I love mashed potatoes, and my darling has said she will provide. I just hope my biscuits are on the good list.
No changes to my constitution, as there’s no change to my medication.
As for my mind—it has its own way of coping, using warped humour as a distraction technique. But it’s only skin deep.
I had a good cry today and shed some unbearable pressure I’d been holding in.
For constipated sadness, I need shoulder-cry-on powders. Can you get them at Boots?
I remain sitting on this bus, looking for my stop—but it’s not slowing down.
I must not hop-off.
