In all seriousness, as much as I am slow and can be tired and such during treatment week, chemo week is the fastest week of all for me.
Routine definitely helps and aides this for sure.
Weird, this is a routine now? My life seems to be measured in 3s, 1-week less than a month. Constantly rotating, churning: 3.
Mom takes me to chemotherapy. Put the IV that will (prayerfully, hopefully) remain in my arm for the rest of the week, to allow anti-nausea and chemotherapy drugs to steep deep, deep within me. Doctors’ visit, listen to me, my heart, my lungs, my life. Cara typically visits me, bringing me lunch (yum! loving the Brown Bag theme…) And even though it’s Dad’s “off” day, he still comes and visits, bringing Mama lunch and whatever we might have forgotten.
Dad takes me to chemotherapy, and starting this day, he guides me to treatment via wheelchair. And as the nurses set me up, Dad, in his own routine, goes and get coffee, a bagel and works diligently on his crossword puzzles. Megan usually visits me during her lunch break, a sweet provision that she works so close to the hospital!
Mom takes me to chemotherapy. By this time, I have probably seen the art therapist, the massage therapist, the music therapist, and at least one other friend-visitor. And Dad will still probably come by to visit, charged by his energy to love, to be around, to serve. Busy day, for sure!
Dad’s day to take me to the hospital: coffee, crosswords, bagels—mathematical man with routines that sooth and structure his heart and brain. I am starting to drift into my hibernation, my chemo-rest. And afterwards try to sleep enough to be awake for homechurch, for friends, to reconnect within the circuit of fellowship the Spirit deems that I am a part of, whether around them physically or not.
Mom’s day to take me hospital. Last day; wow! So busy it seems. And it truly is! 5 days of treatment, of routine, for someone who doesn’t have much of a routine currently. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Hibernation, for both Mama and I. TGIF, I guess? Sleep, sleep. Another week of treatment over—check.
Today is Friday.
And week 5 (wow!) of treatment week is over with some joys (fellow survivor-brother Daniel visiting me, watching Halloween be celebrated on the hosptial floor) and with some lows (having IV unusal trouble, getting re-stuck even as I am someone who has great as veins.)
Today is Friday.
And like the end of all of my vacations, I rained on the way back home. I quietly smiled, noting that this happens every time I am communiting back home from wherever long-trrip I come from. And yes, this is a trip, not a vacation by any means. Destination for home, with rain, in the passenger’s seat is a sign of yes, you are going home now.
Away from the not-normal.