I just threw up.
I’m sitting on a train to my first dose of my allegedly last round of chemo. I’ve been swimming in alcohol all week in preparation for the upcoming eight weeks of sobriety, which will include the notoriously blackout-able events of Fling and Hey Day. It's been done before by better men - I just hope I have some funny bones left to play.
The feelings of nausea and fatigue tinged with just the slightest drop of hopelessness associated with chemo tended to make me question the logic behind the hangover-inducing round at the bar. I made a note to myself – why on earth would I subject myself to this willingly? This is miserable. And stupid.
You start to appreciate clear-headedness when you are forced to drug yourself up with fog.
And yet here I find myself, mouth dry and throat irritated by my body’s literal rejection of my stupidity and feeble attempt to act like any other kid. The breaks in between chemo have been particularly notable for the opportunities to behave recklessly, yet they are supposed to be the times when I reflect on the beauty of being without inescapable discomfort, yet when given the opportunity to bathe myself in the toxic tastes of an (allegedly) happy hour, I jump at the chance to put myself through hell.
Absence may have made the heart grow fonder, but the anticipation greatly outweighed the activity (that’s what she said…)
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