One of the things I was most looking forward to about chemo (you may ask, “what the hell is there to look forward to about chemo?”) was “steroid Sundays.” On the day before (and on the day of and day after) I get to take steroids to get me over the hump of the treatment. Treatments are on Mondays, thus “steroid Sundays.” Having never taken steroids, I was expecting a nice jolt (think Bradley Cooper in Limitless). I was particularly excited about today, a day when I feel about as normal as I’m going to for the next three months — finally nearly recovered from my surgeries and the port procedure I had a week ago — and looking forward to getting a little kick of energy on my last day of freedom before I enter the quarantine that is chemo treatment.
The universe had other plans for me, when I sprained something in my foot yesterday while enjoying a day of walking. So here I sit on the couch, foot in an ace bandage, and unable to do much of anything except think about what’s to come and read. I am so pissed off, but I don’t really think it’s my foot that I’m angry at. I’m angry that for the next six or so months I’ll be logging quite a few hours on this damn couch without the energy to do much more. I hope that’s not the case, but no matter what, this house will be my jailer for at least the next three months and there’s no way around that. I may get a reprieve to go out occasionally, sporting a face mask, disinfecting wipes, and a boatload of hand sanitizer, but that will be the exception. Thankfully, I love my house and have loaded it up with low-key projects and good books to read.
I had been saving up my “fuck cancer” tee-shirts to wear on treatment days, but I broke one out today since it’s clearly a fuck cancer day and gratitude appears to be out of my grasp. I’m hoping that anger gets me through today and the fun that is about to begin tomorrow.