Wednesday, September 24, 2014

So Now I Feel Like a Slug

I started Monday morning with a hike up Piestewa Peak, where I climbed 1.2 miles uphill to the summit just in time for sunrise at 6:19 a.m. I'm not normally up quite so early, even on mornings when I hike, but one of our smoke alarms was running low on batteries and alerted us with a persistent beeping that woke Chris and me up at five o'clock. While Chris pulled every one of the devices out of their sockets, I left the house to get some exercise. This photo is from my iPhone. This is where Phoenix outshines DC.


I got home from my hike before Quinn was out of bed, so I even had time to shower and savor my first cup of coffee, all thanks to our faulty smoke-alarm batteries. Then Quinn woke up, I made breakfast, packed his lunch, tried to brush his hair (unsuccessfully), and eventually got him dressed in the correct dinosaur shirt before heading to preschool.

After drop-off, I headed to chemo.

So now I feel like a slug.

I'm nauseous and mopey and feel like my limbs are stuck in buckets of cement, my head in a vice.

This morning, Quinn wanted me to build him a transformer house out of pillows. He was not amused when I asked if I could sleep on one of the walls. He's at school again today, while I'm parked on our couch trying to slog my way through a to-do list that mostly requires making phone calls or filling out disability paperwork, and even that feels like it might need to wait until this fog lifts a little.

On days like yesterday and today, days I still have every three weeks, I'm reminded that although time is so very important, that we never know how much of it we've got, that despite myself I've felt a certain gotta-race-against-the-clock alertness since my diagnosis and I desperately want to enjoy every moment -- I must also take the time to recover in order to get back out there and grab life by the horns or just build a fort with my son. There is no magic way around it. I am knocked out, rolled over, flattened by this fatigue (FLATigue, as my friend Sarah calls it), and my only way through it is patience and time and more patience and a little bit of anti-nausea medication and the knowledge that this, too, shall pass.

So this picture from the top of a mountain is a reminder to me that it's worth it, that on my best days I still have energy for early morning hikes or taking Quinn to swim lessons, that there are better days just around the corner. There are better days ahead.

10 comments:

  1. Hi Jennifer,
    I'm sorry you have to deal with feeling so awful after chemo. I'm sorry you have to deal with chemo at all. I hate cancer and what it does to people's lives. Wish I had a magic wand... I do know this - slug, you are not! Hope you're feeling better today. And yes, when you're feeling low, better days are something to look forward to. Thanks for sharing. And the photo is stunning.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Nancy. It's amazing to wake up about six days out from chemo and feel the fog magically lifted. It is like a magic wand, it just takes longer than we'd like!

      Delete
  2. Amazing photograph - just breathtaking!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you! It was a stunning view when I got to the top!

      Delete
  3. There are better days ahead! That photo is gorgeous! Well done.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I can't say "don't feel like a slug" because I don't want to devalue your feelings but just know that I think you are beautiful, strong, and amazing! I don't get up at dawn to hike, and I'm not even going through treatment!
    I am the media relations manager for the American Cancer Society in Arizona and New Mexico. My colleague in San Diego found your blog and forwarded me the link. I look forward to following your journey! Please feel free to reach out if you ever want to chat- brittany.conklin@cancer.org 602-586-7401. I hope today is a better day for you. ~ Brittany

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you so much, Brittany! I will be in touch, and I appreciate YOU reaching out to me.

      Delete
  5. Jen, I'm catching up on my blog reading, and am amazed at the photo. I'm sorry you feel so awful during those post-chemo days. Virtual hug.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Beth. Sometimes Phoenix is stunning in its stark beauty. Hugs back to you.

      Delete