Easy On Me

I've decided. This phase of chemotherapy shall here-forth be referred to as: Alice-in-Wonderlanding. 

Is it early morning? Mid afternoon? Am I late for a very important date? Take the small pill for this, big purple pill for that.  Patterns, colors, lights go out... and I'm fast asleep. Or am I?

Doctors warned me that chemo rounds 5 and 6 would hit me demonstrably harder than the four just prior. I was ready, and they were right. And it's a good thing I don't mind mentally strolling through fantastical self-made fairytales given this is what extreme exhaustion can induce. 

In between my foggy images of real and imagined, I find it funny to look back at my own memoir. I can see the blueprint so clearly. I gear up, go to battle, feel roughly 2 days' worth of invincible thanks to steroids and adrenaline, then... I'm reminded of my own mortality. Sunday night was no different, but perhaps with just a bit more weighty nudge.

I’ll begin with an explanation, Let me guess. I owe you a call back? Text perhaps? Email? Yeah. See, from my last round of chemo until Sunday I had been awake enough hours to count on one single hand. And Sunday things culminated quite epically as Devon was forced to begin acrobat-lifting me from the couch and bum-pushing me up the stairs just to go to bed. 

Once comfortably positioned, I was determined beyond question to read our girls a bedtime book despite my could-pass-for-drunk condition. Not today, cancer. Although much below their respective reading levels, we enjoyed the precious tale of a precocious little piglet Olivia, a headstrong creature with fashion flair, and gently skim-touched each cardboard page until our lids held heavy.

Then suddenly Gisele cried out. "Mamma, you're burning me!" she yelped pushing my cheek away from hers.  

"I am?!" And I began patting my hairless head and cheeks like a firefighter trying to find the blaze’s source. "I DO feel warm, I guess, baby. I'm sorry if I hurt you." And Devon was off in a flash like Saint Nick down the chimney to grab a thermometer and assess the situation.

I read it back to him: 100.4 degrees. The exACT level they'd warned us should trigger a visit to the ER given my condition. No, seriously.   

Devon began furiously Google-searching what to do, how much time we had, and whether this really was a pre-cursor to an adventurous ambulance ride this particular evening. I sensed his blood pressure rising and I passed along the emergency nurse phone number I’d been given for these kind of circumstances. 

As I overheard the snippets of guidance back and forth between the nurse and my husband-turned-chivalrous-prince, I could feel the pillows and sheets around me hot to the touch. 

“Is that right?” I heard Devon ask. “So we did exactly what we weren’t supposed to do…? Ok… 2am? Ok.” And he sighed placing the phone in his lap. 

He went on to explain that responding to my situation with a small dose of ibuprofen was apparently the one thing we should have avoided and he was to check on me again at 2am to see if my fever came back. I, of course, fell fast asleep shortly thereafter and heard only a faint whisper in the middle of the night softly in my ear - "I love you". I awoke the next morning well-rested and sufficiently alive and well.

**BEE-DEE-DEE-BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEPPPP**

**WE INTERRUPT THIS MESSAGE WITH AN EMERGENCY NEWS UPDATE**

While drafting the above article, this blog's author began running yet another fever (24 hours after the first). This time a full degree higher than the last read-out. Husband extraordinaire called the nurse line again and was advised to immediately report to the hospital for testing. Children were swept away to their grandparents' home for an overnight and the author and her beloved enjoyed a romantic 5 hour "date night" evening at The James highlighted with blood draws, chest x-rays, and deep nose swabs. Who needs a candlelit dinner at Refectory anyway...     

Disaster was ultimately averted. Tests all came back clean. Fevers evaporated and life went on. And Mamma kept on keeping on another day.