Valentine

For those of you too scared to ask, I’m not puking or pulling out remaining threads of hair. In fact, Bernie thinks I look “too good.” He’s anxiously awaiting the real side effects that will transform this breast cancer blip in our lives into a harrowing hell. I’m much more optimistic. Plus there’s too much good chocolate around to get all maudlin.

Truth is, I feel crappy. But who cares? It’s a save-your-life-to-see-the-kids-get-married crappy. And I have all of this help here. It doesn’t really matter if I can’t sleep because every single muscle in my body feels like it went to spinning class. Or that I can’t taste anything. I don’t have to cook, or brave the 18 degree bus stop, or get out of bed. I’m a spoiled, spoiled girl.

I’ve already approached a gigantic box of romantic chocolates from darling Bernie with absolute abandon, gleefully plowing through it with half bites to get to the good ones the boys hadn’t already pilfered. Cherry? I have no time for you. I have Cancer. But I also have no appetite with which to enjoy my cache of sweets.

Because I feel so yukky, I am considering absolutely anything that would make this better. So far McDonald’s fries and Thai drunken noodles top the list. I could probably force down a warm Krispy Kreme. Unfortunately, there’s not enough antacid in the world to make that a worthwhile gastronomic splurge, and I really don’t want to make this more uncomfortable. Back to my veggie soups, pomegranates, flax seed filled smoothies, and the rather huge consolation that I only have to do this three more times.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my friends. Indulge for me.

 

Me neither, sweet boy.

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