I had a little glimpse yesterday of what feeling good felt like. It was enough of a glimpse to give me hope. Then I woke up today in as bad a situation as I have been over the past week, and it wasn’t a great day overall.
J has got to be burned out. He shuttled the kids across the city today, from a sleepover to lunch to clothes shopping to their respective playdates and back home for dinner (and then an extra outing to retrieve a forgotten fleece). Somewhere in there, he made chili for dinner. It smells great. I don’t know how he managed to do all that. It certainly is more than I’ve ever endeavored to do in a day with the kids. I feel like I’m being unfair, pushing him to be Superman in direct contrast to my utter incapacity right now. He hasn’t complained. He won’t. But he should.
What I managed to do today was: eat half my breakfast, take my medication, pass out for a while, eat a little soup and lots of French bread (perhaps too much bread), pass out, watch “Roman Holiday” on my phone (that’s taken about two days), and work my part-time library job in the evening, which involves sitting by a laptop waiting for people to ask me questions. Except tonight there were very few questions, the ones that came in irritated me, and I had to interrupt my shift when I was seized by a brand new symptom, vomiting. I signed off a few minutes early.
I sent an email to my boss explaining my situation. I can’t be expected to work right now, even if the work is as minimal as that. The temptation to just close out a session without answering the question is just too great. The temptation to be mediocre and unhelpful is alien to me and yet that’s just what I was feeling like tonight. Very little empathy for people who cannot solve their own citation problems. Or find an eraser to use in the library (wish I were kidding on that one).
Speaking of mediocre and unhelpful, that has been my exact experience with the fellows I’ve spoken to on the phone over the weekend when I’ve had questions and my doctor and nurses aren’t available. Last weekend the guy simply wanted to know if I thought my eye pain was bad enough to have to go to the ER. That was all he was interested in.
The fellow I spoke to tonight was marginally better, but betrayed zero awareness of my treatment. I was asking if I needed to re-dose myself with my evening complement of steroids, because I’d vomited two hours after taking them. He said, “And you are vomiting… because of chemo?” NO, I AM NOT. I HAVEN’T VOMITED IN OVER A WEEK. IT’S IMMUNOTHERAPY. I AM NOT HAVING CHEMO. EVEN A FELLOW AT THE CANCER CENTER IS APPARENTLY UNABLE TO UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCE.
Hello. This is why this blog is here.
My stomach, by the way, seems to have grown used to and now prefers being empty. How great is it if I’m somehow developing an eating disorder while going through this? What a bonus.