This morning I’m awake at 1 a.m. I’ve given up trying to decipher why and am just trying to accept that “I am.” I’ve checked Skype and I’m the only one on-line at the moment. Today is Day 7. The beginning of the Nadir period and coincidentally the day I must meet my FedEx driver in person. He is delivering a two-dose supply of medication that I need to sign for. The day after every chemo round, I give myself a shot of Neulasta. It’s a medication that gets my bone marrow to kick in and start producing white blood cells. Each dose is a tiny little 6 mg bit of liquid and requires refrigeration. The insurance company calls me to set-up delivery of these tiny vials. “Your co-pay is $25.00. If you choose not to sign and the shipment is damaged or lost, you are responsible for the replacement cost of $6,035.” And where exactly in my Malcolm help-yourself refrigerator, within the walls of exper-ee-ments, should I store my payload until I need it? I cringed when I heard the cost. I can do a $25 co-pay, what do others do who don’t have that convenient co-pay method in place? The cost of this drug reminded me of a skeptical news commentator say, “Curing cancer is near impossible – cancer is a big business.”
Will is keeping check of my hair and bald patches: “It’s like a cactus.” That explains why it’s uncomfortable to sleep! Cactus needles are not comfortable to lie on nor are they flexible under a hat or wig. I need to keep tabs on my wig; I’m trying to leave it in one of two places: in my bedroom in the wardrobe on the wig rack or on the big Dartington vase on the computer hutch. Being a creature of comfort, I frequently kick off shoes or slippers wherever I am whenever I feel like it. I admit that over our short six-day courtship, the wig is the same. Therefore, if the driver of the red van is reading this, I apologize for pulling my hair off while driving away from school yesterday. I thought I had checked all mirrors and windows, but there you were in my rearview mirror me as I cast the wig to the passenger seat.
A March of Dimes phone call sparked conversation between Will and me last night. I didn’t answer the phone when I saw the caller ID. He asked me “who” the March of Dimes was and I explained what the organization did and that there were organizations working to fight many diseases, including cancer. “Now, Mom, where did your cancer come from?” Me: “I don’t know. But do you know who else had breast cancer and survived? Grandma and Aunt Kris.” Will: “I hope you survive.” Me: “I will.” Although “survivor” seems to be reserved for the ranks of those who are on the other side of it, I include myself in that category already. I actually tend not to use the word because it gives credence to the opposite, and I only see myself surviving every day.
Liam’s Leapster went missing for several days. Bill found it yesterday behind the coffee brewer. I had a flashback and remembered I had confiscated it and needed a quick hiding place. That’s how many things in our house lose their way. Why a pack of gum is tucked behind the utensil urn. Why a chocolate pudding is behind the vase on the counter. Why batteries are on top of the china hutch. Why my wig is atop a vase on the computer hutch.
Staying strong, Linda