There are trees in the cancer centre where I go to receive treatment. Real ones. They built the building around them. They're a little spindly but I love that they're there.
There is no rhyme nor reason to what I want to eat, after the first couple of days post-chemo have passed. This round it's shrimp soup, spaghetti, my spouse's super-high-fibre granola bars and soda biscuits. The first couple of rounds it was chicken soup and pita. I think about food a lot these days and the pleasure I know I will get out of it when I turn the corner. My appetite tends to come back with a vengeance about 10 days after chemo, and, every round, I have killed the time lying in bed imagining the things I am going to eat when I feel better. I also love that so many people have fed my family over the last several months. The impact of this food has been a source of sustenance that is much more than physical.
My cyclical funk has set in. Too much time to think and too little energy to do anything or concentrate for very long. The lingering effects are relatively minor (mild nausea, lightheadness, foul taste in my mouth, fatigue and the surgical aches exacerbated by sitting still) but they serve as constant reminders that I have cancer.
I did not fully expect how much of fighting this disease would be mental.
A poll of the medical staff at the cancer centre confirms that my new-grown fuzz will likely fall out again before chemo is done. It's OK. I only have one more round to go.