My Chemical Romance

I woke up today able to breathe again. The hubby cuddled up and actually greeted me with “Happy Anniversary!” This was after almost two full days of his not being able to lift his head off of the pillow. Of sitting up only to fall back over limp. Of not talking — AT ALL. When he did manage an utterance it was in the form of, “I don’t see the point in this. I’m not doing it any more.” Or, “I’ve given it all over to you. You’re in charge.” Really uplifting stuff like that.

So this morning, on the 17th anniversary of our nuptial exchange, it was with trepidation that I peered out of the window to see if the dark cloud had lifted from our lives. And...alas. Some sun.

The two days of pumped up fun went by fairly quickly. When the much-anticipated appointment to have it removed finally came, the hubby all but sprinted into the infusion room, leaving our favorite receptionist, Deb, to comment, “Wow! He’s stripping that thing off himself. Not even waiting for the nurse!” And it was true. If he knew how to pull it out from the port, he would’ve. THAT’S JUST HOW MUCH HE HATED WEARING THAT EFFIN THING.This is the guy who can't even handle having a parking pass linger in the window for more than five seconds after we've departed said parking lot. (And the constant beeps and alarms that started once the thing was empty didn’t help.)

The most surreal aspect of those days was the biohazard clean up bag. They said, “Take this with you. If this thing happens to spill, it’s illegal to clean it up with paper towels and throw it in the trash.” Uh. Okay. I have seen Sunshine Cleaning and all. But, seriously? If that thing spills while we’re both asleep in bed, I highly doubt I’ll have the forethought to find the bag, open it and don the biohazard gown to clean up the pool of chemicals that we were both just sleeping in. Really.

Luckily they said it would pretty much take hitting it with a hammer to make it spill. And I’m not planning to do that for sure. (Though it’s tempting when that whirring and beeping starts up, so I guess it can happen.

So out it went. Then we stopped to buy some gloves so the hubby could hold the cold milk bottle without throwing it. (And make me a damn latté!)

By the time we got back home, lethargic doesn’t even begin to describe him. He suddenly wasn’t walking straight, then couldn’t sit up, then couldn’t lift his head. His eyes started to roll backwards and he’d try to speak and drift off. I’d ask a question and he would look at me blankly. He finally told me that he was nauseous. So I started making calls for the stronger anti-nausea stuff that was supposed to have been called in already. Left him sleeping and headed off to pick up girls and pills. First try, no pills. No Rx. No nothing. I then hoped against hope that bean would stay asleep during a transfer from the car so I could squeeze in 45 minutes of much-needed rest. But. No. (Lost my temper with her and felt oh-so-proud.)

Second try, both girls in tow this time, miss-miss (fresh from soccer) — kicking the ball all over, bean getting cups of water and walking up and down the store, miss-miss deciding to kick the soccer ball inside and then against the outside of Pharmaca. Still no Rx. So I bailed. Nerves shot, exhaustion starting to seep in. (Bean had been up half of the night before. And the nap-that-could-have-been-but-wasn’t.)

Once home, the hubby was non-existent. A vapor of his former self. Dinner had been delivered by Eve. (Just like the garden of eden had landed on our heads. But with no apple. Just yumminess.) So I tried to get the girls fed, figure out the hubby’s meds, try to get him to eat —something, anything, manage homework, fend off repeated juice and “drinky” requests, referee the girl arguments (approx. one every five seconds), answer the phone, add something to the grocery list, —where is that wine?!—, check on the hubby to make sure he still had a pulse, catalog any new symptoms in the journal, refill the animals’ water bowl, “Loosh! Please feed Ruby!” “Mooommmm! I can’t I’m busy!” SERIOUSLY!!!???

Finally it all ended with the girls bathed, fed, homeworked, and off to bed. I escaped into the cool night air to return a bowl to a neighbor. Ran into three or four of them in the process —and before I knew it— I had soup on the way, a ride for the girls to school in the morning, miss-miss signed up for a weekend of camping, and bean set up for a sleepover for our anniversary night (today). I cried when I got home. The relief washed over me like cool rain after a long, hard dry spell.

Yesterday was much of the same. The hubby talking a bit more, but not moving. I had to make every meal and snack and glass of water just to get something into him. He got up to water the backyard, then came back inside and never got up again. I decided to take the day off from work. Went for an early run, came home and got nearly all of our lingering yard waste into the compost bin before curbside pick up, cleaned the litter box, cleaned out the rotting vegetables in the crisper, raked, cleaned out the fridge, washed dishes, unloaded the dishwasher, started laundry, folded laundry, put away laundry, made lunch, answered a few emails (work and non), then collapsed into a heap for over an hour. Woke up to shower, packed miss-miss for her camping adventure, cleaned some more, tried to read the paper, met miss-miss when Purse Girl dropped her off from school. Finished getting her ready for the big weekend and delivered her to the neighbors’. Next thing I knew, it was after 6pm and it was time to figure out dinner.

I finally got the hubby to speak and tell me something that sounded good to him. (Hurray for larkburger!) And, since we were both getting multiple texts from our friends who had gathered at the park, decided to run by to get bean, say hello and head to pick up dinner. Stopped by Pharmaca once more —still no Rx— but managed to pick up some other stuff to help with symptoms (I hope). Called mom for some mom-juice: “Your place is with him. He needs you.” “I know. I know. I KNOW!”

By the time I got to the park, I was so flustered and out of sorts, that being faced with seeing 7 to 8 of my closest friends (not including the hubbies that I’m almost equally close to) gathered in one spot was more than I could bear. I should’ve bolted. But I’d been spotted, so I decided to race in —head down— grab bean and run. But. No.

My oh-so-astute friends knew something was amiss. The questions started (out of pure concern) and everyone was watching me as I proceeded to bite Purse Girl’s head clean off. Not ones to be easily dissuaded, PG (mere flesh wound), Meta Megan and TRPL TRBL followed me to the car. Asking if I was okay. “No! I’m NOT OKAY. I’m not. The past two days have SUCKED ROYAL EGGS and I don’t want to leave the house for fear of the hubby falling over or ceasing to breathe or, or, or...!” So PG jumped in the car with me for a quick counseling session while I picked up dinner. Hugs from all and I felt a bit stronger. And what doesn’t a few hugs from friends and cheeseburger cure? Seriously.

By the time I dropped PG back off, fielded some concerned texts (NOT WHILE DRIVING!!!) and got home, I was righted again. Bean fed, down to bed and we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie. Up in the Air. Not the most uplifting of movies (that theme yet again), but: George Clooney (dear Mima’s nickname for the hubby).

This morning, that sun was peeking out. It’s our anniversary. And the hubby made most of the coffee (without gloves) and drank it upright. So. There.

We may even make it out for dinner. If.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Chemo Sucks. The Pump Dumpers. No, this is not a real song. But it should be. Because it’s true. Chemo sucks the life out of you. Then hands it back out of the blue.