Half full...

Apparently, it is true: each round of chemo is, as one friend put it, a bit harder to climb out of. She demonstrated this by grasping and clawing the air above her, as if pulling herself out of an abyss. I appreciate drama; I study drama. Her enactment turns out to be maddeningly real for me this time.

Staying calm when I feel horrendous is always the hardest part. I am a knee jerk catastrophiser, as the men who live with me would no doubt attest to. When something is wrong, everything is wrong: we are going to the poor house, someone who needs to study and practice more won't get into college, which I wouldn't be able to pay for anyway because of bad planning and profligate waste, plus we are wrecking the environment. And the house smells like dogs.

Meanwhile, the real problem is that I feel like a bus hit me, and my brain is foggy and doesn't snap to when I need it, and nothing, but nothing tastes good or even edible. There is pain all over, except in my mouth, which feels post-dental, Novocaine-wearing-off numb, and my stomach lurches around like a fighting drunk. The exhaustion and muscle weakness sneaks in, resisting my resistance. Used to being physically strong, capable, professional, independent, I buckle in frustration at trying to finish a task that would have been a doddle pre-chemo. Yet the tasks keep coming; work is non-negotiable.

I know this won't last, I know I will get through this, I know it is worth it, I know only the strong are given such hard times - all the things people have been telling me over the months this has been happening. The kindness of so many, especially my men here, soothes and heals me. My cup is half full; three out of six rounds done and dusted. But I would like the coffee in the cup to taste like coffee again.