The thing about Muhammad and the mountain is eventually they will meet.
I finally took treatment 10 yesterday. I was supposed to have it last Wednesday, and was somewhat looking forward to being the only person in America who would lose weight over the holidays. But as fate, and my low, low white blood cell count, would have it, I was unable to take treatment Wednesday.
I celebrated by falling down the basement steps. Minor injuries, unless you count my pride. The tumble caused a lot of foul-mouthed language in my house and I’m proud to say none of it was uttered by me. As I recall, the only words I uttered were a meek “oh no” right as my left foot slipped off the front of the third step from the top. Thankfully, I landed on my built-in padding and thudded to a stop on the third step from the bottom. After exercising their right to free speech, the troops rallied and rescued me and hussled me to bed. I was banned from the basement for the next few days which only really meant I couldn’t do laundry or try to find the crock pot.
My plan was working.
Thursday was a nice day. I helped out in the kitchen and sat through the meal. The shots I take to increase my white blood cell count were doing a number on me and the fall didn’t really help much and along about early evening I went to bed feeling poorly.
Friday I was supposed to take treatment. I didn’t sleep well. Getting me out of bed took Herculean attempts. I felt bad and looked worse. Years ago my sister and I were digging up some dirt for some project or another of my father’s and accidentally unburied a former pet. At least we think that’s what it was. Friday morning I could have worn that pet as a hat and it would have been a step up. That’s all I’m sayin’.
The Hub drove me to treatment but had to make a couple of emergency stops along the way so I could thrust open the door and bless the pavement. My apologies to the patrons of the coffee shop – it was either out the car door on into the hood of The Hub’s jacket on my lap. And since he’s been through so much already I figured you, dear strangers, would have to endure the sight of one pale, bald woman saying sayonara to her thanksgiving meal. Sidenote here: I’m always amazed at the contrast between how meekly I utter “I think I might …” and the force at which I HOORRRKKKKK! out the car door. 2 stops and 17 dry heaves later we arrived at the treatment center.
They gave me meds for nausea. They re-hydrated me. They sent me home without treatment. Told me to get well. You know, so they could make me feel like shit again.
Yesterday I was finally able to take treatment number 10. And you know what that means? Only 2 more.
ONLY TWO MORE!
How do we know what we can endure until we have to endure it?
How do we know what will make us grow until we feel the growing pains?
How do we realize how precious are the little things until the little things are all we have to celebrate?
Only two more.