Today I’m pissy as hell. I’ve been nauseous and vomiting all week, subsisting on Ensure shakes and iced water. My muscles and joints hurt really badly, I’ve had the chills (but no fever, yay), my head hurts, I’ve had the runs for so long I don’t think I can remember how to take a solid poo. For the past nine days I’ve been asleep more than I’ve been awake. And when I am awake I’m either miserable or stoned, which probably sounds better than being miserable, but what would be fucking awesome is if I could feel good and not stoned at the same time so I could actually carry on a conversation with my husband or kids that I remember. All the hobbies I thought I’d take up to pass the time require either a functioning brain or fingertips that aren’t sore. So I’m pissy.
I try to stay positive. Mostly it’s easy. Today I can’t, but I think that’s okay. I think I need just a few moments to bitch and get this off my chest. Then I’m gonna put my phone down (because it actually feels too heavy to hold much longer and I’m forgetting how to spell) and sleep again. And I know that I’ll probably still feel like shit when I wake up. Maybe I’ll feel like shit all weekend. But I’m also pretty sure that, if the previous three rounds of chemo are anything to go by, I’ll feel a little better by Monday. And that the next two rounds of chemo will probably make me feel progressively worse and I’ll be miserable and pissy all over again.
But I also know that these motherfucking tumors are shrinking. In my head I imagine a literal slaughter going on. I keep going back to my initial William Tecumseh Sherman metaphor back in (I think) February. Because that dude fucked everything up in Georgia, but he fucking won. And we’re gonna win, too.