The alarm went off at 4:45 a.m., Friday, day two after my first chemo treatment, and I answered the call. I did a quick survey and all systems seemed go, so I got ready and left for work at 5:30 a.m. I'd be sensible and not push the envelope. I'd been told that sometimes fatigue sets in more on the second or third day after chemo. So, if I ran out of steam by noon or 1 p.m., I'd head home and get some rest. Not a problem. Piece of cake. Don't have to tell me twice.
Well, you know how that goes. You can have just four items on your to-do list and not even accomplish one, as some project comes along and highjacks your whole day. That's the way it is in the deadline-defined world of publishing. Suddenly -- wherever does the day go -- it was 4:30 in the afternoon and I hit the wall. Shaky and pale, I looked like a candidate for the dead zone.
Apparently, I have to be told three times.
I drove straight home and hit the bed for a few hours. About 7:30 p.m., I awoke, had a sandwich, wrote my second blog entry and called it a night again around 9:30. Even though I still had no nausea, I took one Lorazepam to make sure I slept soundly. I had made tentative plans for Saturday morning with Linn to help take down Christmas decorations at our church, grab a little lunch and maybe do a little shopping. Plus I had to pick up Jeff at the Milwaukee airport at midnight Saturday, so I knew I'd better make sure I had a good night's sleep before Saturday rolled in.
There were no fireworks when I closed my eyes that night, but as I slowly drifted off, I wondered if the few pings I felt here and there were just synapses firing or a message from my chemo, "Hey, guess where I am right now!'
Whatever. I knew where I was right then. In bed. Drifting. I went with it.
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