Thursday, May 20, 2010

Curve Ball and A Can of Whoop Ass

If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there are men on base. ~Dave Barry

Since I am going with the baseball title, I figured I might as well throw a good baseball quote in there. Free of charge. There will be another one later. Trying to appeal to everybody here.

So the people that know have been sayin stuff like this:

"The big wave will hit usually around day three."

"From day three to day five, that's when you'll really feel it."

"Some people are hit hard from day three through seven."

"The days directly following chemo will be your bad week. By the time you get to the end of the week, you'll be home free and starting on your good week."

I have generally been doing well, by the time I got to day six, ok, so maybe I was getting a little cocky. Like the last girl standing in dodge ball.

Hello curve ball on day six.



Photo0117D.jpgA voice like a demon says "Shut up and lay your ass down. Now. I said now."

Vertigo (from the Latin vertō "a whirling or spinning movement") is a type of dizziness, where there is a feeling of motion when one is stationary.)

Uh huh. Yeah huh. Four hours of trying to lay as still as I possibly could. Like when you were little, and could swear the bogey man was under your bed or in your closet. But if you lay really really still, you could fool that bastard into thinking you were asleep. Don't ask me why he won't wake somebody asleep, but it worked man. It worked.

Day Six. WTH? This is day six. I'm not supposed to be feeling this today.

I took the meds. Nausea med number one. Cracked open the backup plan, nausea med number two. A couple of crackers.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

I think I'm going to throw up. No, it's ok. It's back. Get up. No fool lay your ass back down. I said get up. Don't even think about moving.

But it's day six. It's day six. Wah, wah, wah, it's day six.

Breathe. Breathe.

And this port in my chest, damn it's like a rock, it's like a rock, is it supposed to feel like this?

My baby bro Ronald calls. The phone ringing almost makes me move and gives me away to the bogey man. I lay still.

I wait till it's safe. I message him.

"Sorry bro. Can't talk. Getting my ass kicked."

Chemo is doing a little happy dance all over my bed. It sounds just like that annoying Baskin Robbins commercial:

"Ice cream and cakey cake, ice cream and cakey cake, do the ice cream and cake, do the ice cream and cake."

Mother of God.

I lay still and wait for the "Exorcist" theme song to play. Tubular bells. Remember that people? Just the sound of that on the radio was wicked scary.

and then,

it was over.

I feel better now.

You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time. ~Jim Bouton, Ball Four, 1970

Today I was the ball, chemo gripping me.
Ok, one for chemo.

I'm hungry.

I will make myself the ultimate medicine for all that ails you, served to me many times by my 4"11" italian grandmother.

Can you guess?

Pastina with a little butter and a poached egg.

I feel better now.

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