Part Twenty-Five: A Week Ago

            A week ago, my daughter and I were in Tulsa for my fourth chemotherapy treatment.  It was a long day as usual:  blood draw for lab work, appointment with my oncologist, and about four hours in the treatment room.  Each time I have had a different nurse, and each time she has been a loving follower of Christ.  Wednesday’s nurse was another gem.  When everything was done, she gave me a big bear hug and said to Dana and me, “You are a blessing.”  She was a blessing, too.

            That day already seems several lifetimes away.  On Thursday and Friday, I enjoyed days of relative well-being.  Too tired to leave the house, I was blessed with a visit and a meal from two different friends.  And then came the weekend from hell.

            Two days of enduring minute by minute.  Two days of feeling awful beyond measure.  Two days of being too exhausted to talk coherently, let alone read or do anything except endure.   I am not exaggerating.  I couldn’t even listen to soft music or pray anything other than “Help me, God.” 

            The malaise began to lift Sunday evening.  On Monday morning, missing my grandchildren so much, I managed the walk across the street to go see them.  Let me hasten to explain that my daughter checks in on me every day, brings me food, and is a great comfort to me.  But on the bad days, I cannot handle seeing my precious grandchildren, nor do I want them to see me so low. 

            Today (Tuesday) I did a brief errand in the morning and in the afternoon, spent the lunch hour with Dana and the kids, and had my son Joseph over to do laundry.  In short, I did too much.  This evening has been hard:  the sicky-icky post chemo feeling strengthened, and the stabbing pain in my back (thanks to some degenerating discs) has been excruciating.  An anti-nausea pill and a pain pill have quieted things down to a more bearable level.

            But I can listen to music again.  I can read again.  I can have nice long talks with God again.  I can drive my car.  I can receive precious hugs from one-year-old Josiah, three-year-old Joelle, and seven-year-old Benjamin.  I can be grateful that the huge spider I saw yesterday was already dead, though I smacked him with the fly swatter just to be sure. 

            And now I have a full week and a half until my weekly chemo begins.  I’ll walk the fine line between not doing enough and doing too much.  I’m thinking about starting a two-minute, five-times-a-day exercise program.  But, please, no spiders.