Well folks, as of today we are halfway through treatment in the fight to slay Mad Sara in Candyland.
The latest MRI reveals that she has been weakened and reduced and broken apart. She’s not elbowing the rest of my brain anymore, squatting on real estate that she never rightfully rented. Mind you, she’s still hanging out, but she is a faded shadow of her former glory. And just to make sure she gets the hint and keeps edging toward that exit door, today marked number three of six chemotherapy treatments.
I’m no longer dizzy as a bat, but I am dizzy as Lucille Ball – forgetting what I said to whom and when I said I’d do whatever it is I told them I’d do.
Meeting Jim’s (of Jim and Abby) friend Jim (conveniently named that so I could remember his name), who survived Hodgkin’s Lymphoma against all odds 11 years ago, I asked him if the stupids that come with chemo go away with time. He said, “Not really, but it turns out you don’t have to be that smart anyway.” Bah! I love it. Thanks Jim for the permission to slide into mental simplicity without self-judgment! Seriously, that’s huge. You don’t have to be that smart, do you? (Jim, by the way, is midway through his Ph.D. in computer science, so he obviously had some smarts to sacrifice, still … ).
OK, what else?
My right side flops like a dead fish when I need it most – like when bowling against my daughter and her friends for cool points. A ZERO score does not get you far. Do you know how many points that is? None. I just could not get my mind out of the gutter!
I don’t know. Other stuff. I’m getting kinda bored with the whole game of What New Symptoms Do We Have This Week? Numbness spreading from hands and feet to legs and back. Hair growing back that I just learned I’ll lose again with this new chemo. Suck. Fatigue that makes me look like a lazy slob who finally has the ultimate excuse to never get off the couch. Waning ability to walk, get out of cars, go down stairs, take escalators (those are scary!), flip from my back to my stomach in bed, get out of bed, sit on a toilet without crashing into it, stand (yes, stand), pick something up off the floor, open cans, open potato chip bags, text, you know, the little stuff.
But as I understand it, I will recuperate from most of this, so I take note and let it humor me since I choose to trust that most of it is impermanent.
K. Drinking wine, with which I have reconvened over the holidays. Preparing to get my shite together on Jan. 1 and return to a strict regime of sobriety, herbs, exercise, and love for all mankind (which means I’m hating you all today!).