So today's post was supposed to be all about what you lovely people can do. I have been moved and I have cried because of some of the fine heartfelt offers from people close and far, for everything from food to love to errands to, oddly, no pity at all--which was nice.
And I have a response. But today got in the way of it.
My stepfather has said over and over to not get ahead of myself. And son of a bitch if he ain't right. And today I did, and the gods have been making me pay for it since.
It is day 7 or so of my 28 day induction. I have ALL but am 38, and am being treated with a protocol designed to emulate the roughness of an ALL treatment for kids but in older people. Most of the people who have come through this place with what I have are either 12 or 60.
So I confused them a bit when I got here: runner, good shape, seemingly OK with the initial symptoms and treatment response. Stuff like that. They were even impressed with the responsibility with which N and I would take me carefully outside for small jaunts and bring me back in one piece.
So they were open to the possibility of me heading home after the first week and doing the rest of the 28 days course as an outpatient--coming in one or two or three days a week to get blood-work and chemo and whatever else I would need.
But Monday came and I felt like shit and the veil was lifted from everyone's eyes and I am just as breakable as the next guy, heavy-metal t-shirts notwithstanding.
So I am not going home. In my mind I was already on the couch, or sitting on the bike trainer in the living room turning the pedals over slowly, trying to keep the gray pall of chemo away and stay somewhere near healthy--just let the cells get on with what hey need to do and try to come out the other side.
But not any more. Or at least, not tomorrow. I'll be here for a while yet.
And, as payment for my hubris, Stefan was just visited by 'musicians on call,' literally a guy with an out of tune guitar, howling about heartbreak and old motorcycles or something. The scene would have been insanely funny if it had been some other poor bastard. I even chuckled a little, as the D string bent further out of tune than where it started. Stefan has been getting stronger. I am happy for him, except that it means his evening antics have gotten rather more robust. The hull-scraping moans and night-flying questions zing and titter about the linoleum with a greater zest,and the nurses and PAs walk that much slower down the hall toward us, preparing to wash him again.
See you tomorrow.
