Poison

Yesterday was a blur. With Ativan and enough Benadryl to knock out a large animal, I slept through the entire length of the poison infusion. (The staff doesn’t endorse that description, I’ve learned.) My lovely husband watched over me for four hours in an uncomfortable chair. Because we had expected to be a mix of anxious and bored, we brought an arsenal of make-time-fly things that never made it out of the bag. Bernie refused my apologies for being the most uninteresting cancer patient ever saying, “complaining of ‘boredom’ during your wife’s chemo treatment pretty much makes you the worst person on the planet.’” I’m certain that all of your thoughts and prayers also helped me snooze through the whole thing.

What would I do without all of your help? I’m in a full steroid rage right now. This will keep me from puking up my quinoa, but also could easily have me up and scrubbing floors or ordering lots of on-line items we don’t need. I’ve warned Bernie that I might seem a bit nutso… apparently he’s noticed. This mind-scrambling drug also makes it impossible to pray for peace. But I can feel all of you filling in for me, with all of your different and beautiful expressions of love.

A-Ma and A-Gong return tomorrow and will be bringing the entire produce inventory from Flushing and the syllabus for post-chemo energy work. My kitchen and Xi are going to be working hard. They’ve been warned that the steroids might tax my patience or loosen my tongue. But I’ll do my best to endure their treatments in the intent they are offered, and save all of the good commentary for here. Stay tuned.

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