The Chemo Diaries. Day Something. I Don't Know What Day it Is.

Remember Baby Brain?  The cute little lapse in memory we experienced as expectant mothers, somehow ignited by the cute little lump growing inside of us?  Today I was introduced to Chemo Brain, decidedly less cute.  Decidedly more annoying because there's not a baby in my tummy to rub.  It's really just another way that cancer says "fuck you" when you're trying to act like you're normal, even though you know you're not anymore so you should probably stop pretending all together and get on with it.

Where was I?  Kate and I were trying to plan our day tomorrow which will involve watching Willa perform her The Dance-A-Thon dances, cabbing it up to midtown to cut off my hair, donate it to Locks of Love, and trim my wig in an attempt to make it cute and bearable.  Then cabbing it back down to Dance-A-Thon to try to catch the end of Clio's dances.  Carolina will fill in for us while we're gone.  Dance-A-Thon happens once a year at PS3 and it's not at all mandatory that parents attend, but if you're a parent on chemo you try your best to give your kids some semblance of normalcy.  Because everything else sucks for them, showing up to watch them do the chicken dance and the Macarena to raise money for a school in Guatemala is not that hard in the greater scheme of things.  The hard part is when they see my short ass wig and cry.  That will be the hard part.  I will probably not bother wearing mascara tomorrow.  I hate it when it runs all over my cheeks.

I had to ask Kate six or seven times what time this started and what time that started and she was very patient with me and kind of laughed because it is the antithesis of me.  I hold information like a steel trap and I'm on top of things to a fault.  To witness me do the opposite must be pretty entertaining, especially for my little sister.  I did make it to the Final Ballet and Tap Dance Class Performance for Willa this afternoon, with a phone on 20% battery that was supposed to film the whole thing for Daddy.  I got most of it.  Chemo brain got the rest.

I deposited two checks that have been sitting around taking up space and driving me crazy, but that was comical.  Have you ever shroomed and tried to deposit checks?  I went in to the drugstore to buy Ziploc freezer bags and walked past the wall of assorted plastic bags three times.  Have you ever tripped on acid and tried to buy freezer bags?

I am not stoned, shrooming, or tripping on acid, but I don't have to be.  I'm on chemo.

Last night, Michael gave me shot in my belly.  A white cell booster that is supposed to keep my white blood cells from going too low and help me come out of the trough a tad more quickly.  Side effects?  Oh yes, there are always side effects.  My bones could start to feel like they are going to explode within 24 hours or so.  For that I was prescribed Advil.  And only 2.  WTF?!?!

I'm also on every anti-nausea medicine one could think to prescribe.  Well, except for two which are reserves.  I told Beth I could not imagine needing the reserves after all that I would already be on.  She gently reminded me of all the women who came before me, 20 years ago, for whom the chemo and the side effects were so bad that they could not finish their treatment.  So I am the lucky one.  I know.  But not as lucky as the women 20 years from now, who, fingers crossed, will not have to endure 14 rounds of poison coursing through their bodies in the hopes that some lingering cancer cells are killed. My friend Fran calls it insurance against recurrence and I can live with that.  Because I have to live with that, don't I?  I am not a hero.  I am not brave.  I am only doing what I have to do to be here for my kids.  And to watch Hillary get elected.

Bright spot?  My first breast expansion was last Friday.  How quickly we forget the breast reconstruction.  Thankfully Angelina the Mega Media Machine is here to flash her reconstructed face on every tabloid to remind us that breast cancer does not have to be breast cancer, it can simply be two beautiful new breasts.  And then be called a hero for it.  (I want to like Angelina, but today she is not my favorite).  Visiting my plastic surgeon is a little like going to see Larry David in a white lab coat but I can live with that when at the end of our 7 1/2  minute appointment I am bouncing off the table saying "Alright, not so bad.  At least I'm getting some boobs.  Things could be worse.  Things could be a lot worse."