We’ve relocated to Recovery Lair North. We had a small window of opportunity between snowstorms and grabbed it.
That was Saturday. It’s now Tuesday. Chemo day 12. Concepts of time have become ambiguous. It might be from the small amounts of pot I vape throughout the day. Maybe. I had planned to carefully document the endless flux of chemo side effects, day by day. My response to future infusions will match this one -- or gradually get worse as the poison builds up in my body. I know that days 4, 5 and 6 are a beast and will warrant narcotics or horse tranquilizers or whatever I can get ahold of. It does get better after that, but it’s never good. We’re now cycling through some of last week’s greatest hits, but with less intensity. The muscle/bone/joint jolts are back, but they move through quickly, like sparks. My thrush is clearing up. I have insomnia. I need naps. I was running a low-grade fever yesterday; I’m still struggling with my port bandage adhesive reaction. My fingernails and teeth are sensitive and achy. My eyes feel too big for their sockets. My skin is thin and prone to breaks. My heart is just so close to the surface.
“Hair falls out” is penciled in for Friday, chemo day 15. I got an industrial hair catcher for my shower so I won’t plug the plumbing. Today Bob gave me a punk rock haircut, shaving half my head, because why not. It highlights my craniotomy scar nicely.
I’m being more deliberate with medical marijuana use on the advice of my medical team, in an effort to more consistently reduce gastric distress. It conveniently also reduces generalized distress. It tastes nasty and makes me cough, still.
It is gorgeous here at the cabin. We have a ton of snow, the bird feeders are filled and the fire is cozy. It’s also dry as shit, necessitating a trip into town to get a humidifier. Walking into Walmart, Bob was conflicted between morality and tremendous savings. So much value!
