Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Dear Day 7,
We have a lot to discuss. I know by now it is inevitable that you must come, as no one has (yet) figured out a way to fast forward through time (although that movie Click does present some interesting ideas).
But must you be so awful every time you come around? I'm warning you, the next round will be different. We have established a plan to thwart you (as my mother says) with IV fluids and a softer landing from the high dose drop-off of prednisone on Day 6, who has still been a fair-weather friend to me thus far. You, Day 7, do not deserve to have the number 7 attached to your name (after all, Judah was born on the 7th of May).
Let me be blunt here: you suck. By the time I get to you, I am already tired of being tired and sick of feeling sick. But you really put the icing on the cake with your fever and then sweating and then fever (and then sweating). I like to laugh, you know, and smile, and go outside and enjoy my life. You make it seem like 24 hours can go on forever. Please stop.
Dear Day 8,
While I appreciate your attempts to mop up the mess Day 7 repeatedly leaves behind, I do not believe you are working to your full potential. Yes, there is poison still coursing through my veins and yes, I realize my body is working overtime to distinguish between the good, healthy cells and the evil, cancerous ones, but you are supposed to be the sun rising on the new day. You are supposed to be the I-feel-so-much-better-today day.
Instead, you fail me. You are just a small improvement (and if I'm letting it all hang out here, you were no improvement yesterday) over Day 7 (ouch! I know that one hurt, but I'm not sorry to say it). You kept my head glued to my pillow (even in the car to and from the doctor's office as well as all through my IV drips). You brought acid reflux and belching and gas and tummy aches. It's all just a-gurgling on you, Day 8. You've got some work to do.
Dear Day 9,
Alright, now you have something I can work with. No, you have not improved the belly situation, but you have brought me back some energy I can at least pee in the toilet with (as opposed to the convenient but humiliating commode of Day 8). You're the cheerleader I've been waiting for (We've got ru'ach yes we do, we've got ru'ach how 'bout you?? YAAAAYY Mia!!*). Now at least I can voice all of my annoyances instead of letting them mull around in my hairless head. Okay, okay, Day 8 got to count the hairs (all 15 of them), but you - you lucky duck - you get to wash them!
Day 9, you have brought with you more than just energy. You brought the UPS man, the one who is always happy to see me (of course, I am always happy to see him too, wink, wink). And he brought me something I didn't even order for myself! You were really thinking this time. You also brought back what seems to be my appetite (although it's been so long, I shouldn't jump to conclusions).
But the best thing about you, Day 9, is that you brought Dr. Henry back from vacation (insert beam of light and church choir, "AAHHHH"), so I will always hold a special place in my heart for you. I'm assuming (read: praying) Days 10 and 11 will have me eating and digesting better, so I can't give you a gold medal just yet, but you are up there on the short list. I thank you for that.
Now, if you'll just give me enough energy to go to Home Depot (do they have motor scooters there?) and pick out the new kitchen cabinets, I will (mostly) stop yelling at Dan and threatening to fire my mother (not really, it was her idea - mine was just to get her hearing checked - but you knew that anyway).
Thanks so much,
*Ru'ach is Hebrew for SPIRIT!
NOTE TO PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANIES: If any of you care to actually pay for all of the free advertising, all donations will go towards: a new flatscreen tv, my soon-to-be remodeled kitchen, a trip to Hawaii (or Paris, or Fiji, I'm not picky) and professional-like copies of my dummy books to be sent to literary agents around the country.