Any thought about working during chemotherapy vanishes within 48 hours. I blame the Neuplasta shot, but it's really the combo. Each shot of Neuplasta costs $7,500, and I must have it after each chemo. The math makes me feel sicker.
Chemotherapy is to be feared for a reason. Already I want to say fuck it. Never have I felt so horrid and we've only just begun. Karen Carpenter's angelic voice runs incessantly through my head like a cockroach on crack.
If you've ever had a bad flu, imagine that times 1000. My body aches ferociously. For the first time I'm aware of each place that arthritis has been hiding. My hips are the worst, along with the bottom of my right foot, but every bone hurts. Over the next 10 days the side effects, grow, fade and new ones join in. Queasiness. Diarrhea. Aversion to food and water. Creeping fatigue. Moon face from the steroids. Sadness and despair.
Reading the handouts on chemo destroys my attitude, so they go into a box that goes in a drawer. I don't want to know anything more.