My wicker life boat

My wicker life boat is floating nearby again. I’m a day away from another round of chemo. Now I pull my life boat out only in the morning and at bedtime to brush and floss my teeth and take two little pills. Since early October I have kept my toothbrush, floss, toothpaste and towel quarantined from the other Tinkler germ havens. Although we try to contain everyone’s toothbrush in a separate glass, on occasion there has been an obvious game of musical toothbrushes held in the bathroom. I don’t want my toothbrush involved in that.

Tonight I’ll review the inventory of the whole boat, making sure every anti-nausea med is in place and reviewing the specific anti-nausea directions through Day 5. Next I consider the side effects of the anti-nausea meds and make sure their antidote is in place. And if the first concoction doesn’t work, there’s another level to resort to.

Tomorrow night I’ll take the basket from its cupboard in the bedroom, and after rifling through it at bedtime, I’ll move it to the kitchen counter. That way when I wake up at 3 a.m. I won’t be pawing through a cupboard to find it and jiggling pill bottles upstairs. I can turn a light on in the kitchen, evaluate and diagnose and treat without interrupting my sleeping beauties upstairs.

I keep it tethered close by the first week as I watch the clock and take meds as directed. I don’t wait for the feeling to drift by. I’m determined to avoid it if I possibly can. By Day 4, my gratitude for my wicker boat grows thin. While I appreciate it, I’m tired of having it so close. Finally, around Day 7, I release the line and tow it at length behind me, thankful I only need it for normal tooth maintenance and two little pills, once again.

Staying strong and afloat, Linda