Some days I want to open up my skull, scoop out my brain, cradle it lovingly & pat it reassuringly and tell it there, there, one day this bad stuff will be behind us and everything will get back to normal. Those who’ve walked this “cancer journey” before tell me that this will happen. Other days, I want to open up my skull, scoop out my brain, and kick it across the room, saying, is this the best you can do? Can you at least try and keep up here?
Today is a kick-it-across-the-room kind of day, and it’s early. It’s still dark outside, for cryin’ out loud. My brain should still be sleeping and recharging so it’s ready to face the day. Instead, it woke up–and woke me up, too–several times last night, disrupting my Ambien-induced slumber. Stupid brain. Doesn’t it know that sleep is the one guaranteed relief from the cancer-laden thoughts that course through my head? Unless I’m dreaming about cancer-related stuff, that is, and that too I blame on my idiot brain. How come those dreams are never good? Where are the unicorns and fields of four-leaf clovers? Where are the feel-good scenes that bathe my brain in serotonin, ensuring that when we wake up, we do so with a big smile and feel like we’ve had a nice hug. Where’s Charles Schultz when I need him?
Now I can’t remember what this post was about. Stupid brain.
Today will be a long day. In addition to the choppy slumber and frustrating half-thoughts, I have 3, count ’em, 3 doctor’s appointments today. That’s about 3 too many for me.
First up is Dr Grimes, infectious disease guru, to hopefully shed some light on the MRSA part of the infection puzzle. I’m expecting to get culture results from my visit to him last week, and he will order blood work as well today, to seek more answers to the great infection questions that seem unending.
Then it’s off to Dr Spiegel to get down on my knees and beg her to please please please pull these damn drains. Today is 4 weeks, people. Four long weeks of being tethered. She’s not easily swayed, so my visit to her may end in tears. Or shouting. Or both.
But, wait — I have my appointment with Dr S to round out the day! That ought to be good. He always has something interesting to say about my pitiful situation. Half the time I don’t have the foggiest idea what he’s talking about, but it’s always interesting.