THIS SUCKS! Big time. For the last week I have been living in a wave of nausea that will not go away and before I even have time to recover from last Monday's chemo here comes Monday again tomorrow with another damn dose and last Friday I had to go in to get an anti-nausea drip for three hours that didn't really work for more than a moment and there were two bald women who were so sick of doing chemo that they were about to play hooky for a few months and go on some exotic trip around the world. They were not sure it was all worth it because in both cases the cancer had come back and they had to endure the whole thing all over again. And I'm sitting there thinking is it worth it at all just to get a few extra months (if that's you get) because during those months you just feel sick and you can't jump in the ocean so what is the point?
And I lay there on the couch and start freaking out about one of those memorials that I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE because these days I can feel people trying to peek into my window to see what kind of shape I'm in. "I hear she looks awful. She can't eat" "She looks like death." "How long does she have?" I know people who have died and they have had these memorials where people talk about you and some people who talk you may not even like and even though you're dead it is just so embarrassing.
And on top of everything the dishwasher broke and leaked all over the kitchen floor and that opened up my anger control switch about the man formerly known as my husband who lives in his nice clean bachelor apartment with a landlord who will take care of his damn dishwasher whenever it goes kerplooey and then I realized how much I want to move out of this house into one that is my very, very own painted in MY colors with only MY stuff in it and my son's stuff and...
By the way, my son was a Prince, as usual, at my last chemo. Sat there with me, held my hand, watched me vomit, stroked my hair, made me laugh and that is not easy.
There have been times when I was in the middle of throwing up that I just wanted to have a heart attack and fall on the bathroom floor and get this over with. Enough. Enough already. And then I'd brush my teeth and get back on the couch and pick up a book and I'd read something, like a great sentence, so I'd read on because I was pretty sure that I was going to find another great sentence if I kept on reading and I suppose that's a reason to carry on. But I miss my other self and what we used to do, like swim and eat turkey burgers and I know some
things will never be the same and that just completely bums me out. (Now that, by the way, was a lousy sentence. If I had read that after brushing my teeth I surely would have ended things right there and then.)
I think I'm very close to being divorced. I say "I think" because I have these papers on my desk that "I think" I'm supposed to sign or at least peruse (did I spell that correctly?) and they came the day I did my last chemo and you know what I'm realizing as I write this...That I CANNOT fall onto the bathroom floor until I get completely divorced. There we go. That is a much more important reason to hang in there...Way more important than reading a good sentence.
"I get the willies behind closed doors." Phooey on that. "Please, sign on the bottom line and your marriage will be dissolved." Yahoo. I can breath. I'm finally free.
You know, I feel better already. Ready for my chemo, Mr. DeMille.............................