A Chemo-Week Godsend

Yesterday was one of those days -- this week has been one of those weeks -- when the post-chemo exhaustion catches up with me and knocks me square on my ass, when the steroids (or my hormones) make me weepy (highlight: my yoga instructor played "Stand by Me", my and Chris' wedding song, in class the other day, and I was sobbing in down dog), when it feels like a struggle to get out of bed, let alone play with Quinn or do laundry or pour myself a bowl of cereal. I must have an amazing ability to forget how wiped out each treatment makes me, because all of this never fails to surprise me. Chemo-nesia? Something like that.

Part of it -- a large part of it, actually, I think -- is that the steroids I'm given with my infusion keep me up well well well past my bedtime, my mind and body buzzing like I drank a quadruple venti mocha with dinner (the only time of the week I have any energy). I got four hours of sleep Monday night, which is not nearly enough. Then I spend the rest of the week trying to play catch up, and I am too old for this shit.

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Did I mention our house is under construction? We're turning our one-car garage into a mother-in-law suite and building ourselves a two-car garage. Well, the construction guys are building it, and it's coming along at a pretty decent pace, from what I can tell. This week they're working on framing the roof.

Quinn loves it when the cement mixer or diggers show up on our front lawn, but after four weeks of activity the novelty of the construction itself has worn off. 

He'd rather watch Rescue Bots (which he calls "Rethcue Botsth to the Rethcue") on his iPad. Because I'm gunning for parent-of-the-year-award (they still give those out, right?) we spent all day Tuesday on the couch watching tv. I couldn't do it again yesterday, not with the incessant ham-ham-hammering going on above our heads, in my head.

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A friend swooped in and saved my tired butt offered a play date at her house, and it was exactly what Quinn and I both needed. We may have overstayed our welcome (although I hope not). Quinn spent five hours running around their football-field-sized backyard, jumping with his friend on their trampoline, driving a "monster truck" until it ran out of batteries, until he ran out of batteries, too. Also? We've potty trained, so who needs pants when it's 75-degrees outside?

Somehow, parenting is a million times easier with two moms around. Math would insist it should be twice as easy, but no. A million. We visited lazily, the boys were happy, and Quinn came home as pooped as I was last night. It was glorious. And, finally, this week is coming to an end.

Thank you, Shannon. Next time I won't forget the wine.