Thankfully I woke up today (duh!) – without the crushing, incapacitating fatigue that I woke up with two weeks ago, post-my last immunotherapy infusion.
As I have written previously, I did not alert my oncologist to my bedridden status then or since as I have been trying not to worry that I had crossed some Rubicon-type line concerning my treatment and its side/straight-on effects. Apparently, and I will continue to believe (cling to this belief) that my inability to get out of bed two Saturdays ago was indeed an aberration, rather than an actualization, of life in this new Kenny lane.
So here I sit at my desk writing away, fully dressed, teeth-brushed and clean-shaven, all by 8:15 a.m., pill-popping as I go.
As I recall, two weeks ago, when I finally summoned the strength to extricate myself from under the covers to get dressed and attempt to walk downstairs and restart my day (I had gotten up earlier to feed our cats breakfast and give Chino his insulin shot), "The clock on the wall" (clock radio, actually), to quote George Thorogood, said 3:53 p.m. (And other than bathroom breaks, that was all I could muster in the nine hours since I woke up at 7 a.m.)
No pain, just zero energy. It was almost as if I was paralyzed.
Writing back to the present, anticipating this morning, I've been a bit apprehensive the last few days – fearful that when I awoke today, I would once again be fighting that terrible fatigue and considering a new reality in my cancer existence.
When my eyes popped open at 6:30 this morning, I was grateful (as my father used to say: "Any day that I wake up is a good day") and relieved that when I raised my right arm to roll back the covers, I did so with relative normalcy; and even more relieved when I was able to swing my legs out from underneath the covers and onto the bedroom floor where I had no difficulty getting my bearings. Before too long (maybe 30 seconds or so), and after a few deep breaths, I stood up and officially began my day without any further ado. Although I hadn't taken any Rolaids: "Oh, what a relief it is!"
Dare I say then it will be a normal day, up and at 'em with nary a hint of fatigue in the forecast.
Rain, however, is in the forecast, and given the date on the calendar: April 13, 2019, I have to face an even greater challenge than the fatigue I experienced two weeks ago: clothes shopping.
More specifically, I have to buy a suit, as well as some upgraded good-looking casual attire which my wife, Dina will approve and that Kenny's budget will tolerate, as I'll be attending a family wedding and rehearsal dinner beginning May 3, 2019.
One more concern: my weight. It's not good. It's the talking-scale-joke-will-one-of-you-please-get-off bad. But I have no choice. Today's the day (for availability reasons) or it will be "Good night, Irene." Is there a tent sale going on anywhere?
You know, now that I think about it – and feel it, I may be feeling a little fatigue.
Maybe it's not the best day to be trying on ill-fitting clothes ALL DAY. What if I don't have the manual dexterity to be in and out of dressing rooms, up and down while in them and back and forth to the clothing racks with shoes, slacks, shirts and suits?
What if today is another day in my life – which seemingly began at birth, where I spent hours in the "Husky"/"Portly" departments at Jordan Marsh, Filene's Basement and Kennedy's in downtown Boston, trying to find Kenny some "school clothes" that fit, that is excruciating AGAIN? Granted, it wasn't cancer then as it is now, but for an overweight young boy, it was torture personified and the experience imprinted me for life as a serial-clothes-shopping-hater.
Got to go. Wish me luck. I'll need it.