That’s what’s on the calendar. In ral words, chemo at 11, the meteor chemo, followed up tomorrow by the Big 1000 LBS weight from Monty Python of Neulasta. There will be opiates over the next five or six days for pain control, but it’s really not all that great of a control since I am deathly afraid of turning into a goofball-gobbling pillhead — I have a bit of an addictive personality, what got me into this situation after all.
The other bit of blues-making news is the C2 part of that dealio — that stands for Cycle. I was informed last week that it will wrap up at C8. Each cycle is a 3-week period — Day1 chemo, Day 8 chemo, Day 15 labs. Lather, rinse, repeat, until the end of June. With occasional CT scans to see if it’s doing anything.
I don’t know why it drags me down this time, except it really felt like I was getting better and stronger. Hell, I was even contemplating Tiny Bidness ideas. Having 1.5 weeks out of every three where you’re marginally competent is kind of a downer, even though I’ve done this once already. It seems like I’ve got a lot more externalities hanging over me, too, but they’ve been there all along.
I hate that I’ve turned this into a cancer-bitch blog, despite having promised, at least to myself, to keep a bit of a log or record. I shall endeavour to perk up. Baseball being finally on the horizon helps a great deal. I need a plan for those 1.5 weeks of marginally half-assed, too, get me out of the rut, even if it isn’t advised to be about because of infection risk.