This morning (round 4, day 9) I fought a tooth-and-nail battle with myself about going to the coffee shop. I still felt a lingering sense of fatigue and general malaise, I’ve been housebound since the chemo, and I was fed up. I wanted a coffee and a ham and cheese croissant for second breakfast, goddammit, and I wanted to fetch it with my own two hands.
It might seem as if my body is calling the shots these days, but that’s one hundred percent wrong: it’s my brain, because it has to be my brain. Cancer is a fruit fly, the treatment is a Starktastic guided missile, and it’s my job to stand still – to wait for it, consciously – while the doctors aim and fire at me. My body is a visceral entity, it wants to duck and cover, but I can’t listen to it.
It’s also my job to think first, realistically, about the state of my immune system. My body’s defenses have been annihilated to the point of enabling shingles, for Goddess’ sake. I’ve got no chance against whatever flu, cold, or other free-floating contagious disease that happens to be swirling through the general population. For me, public places are open petrie dishes right now. I have to remember that and act accordingly – no matter how badly I want to see Black Panther and gobble up something salmon at Legal Seafood.
Inevitably, the less logical parts of me carry the day and I go out. If I don’t relent and allow this to happen, the only time I leave the house is to go to the doctor. That is highly detrimental to my morale, which is just as important to my survival as the treatment itself.
Today, though, I decided to err on the side of caution. I weighed my choices and convinced myself that staying home was the lesser of two evils. Tomorrow I will feel differently, I know it, and I’m clear-headed enough to lean on that knowledge for comfort.
medicinal sausage 