The problem with repeating something for the second time is that you subconsciously have a preconceived idea of what to expect.
You plan. You try to predict, based on fact. And, stupidly, you even go as far as to think, “Yeah, I’ve totally got this shit covered.”
Or maybe that’s just me. Naive.
It certainly looked the same. A sleepless night. A rush of emotions. The dread of the seven post-chemo injections. What I hadn’t predicted was the extreme tiredness.
I wasn’t prepared to need twelve hours’ sleep at night. Two hours in the morning. Another three in the afternoon.
And still have no energy.
I’m not talking about being a bit tired. I’m talking about the kind of tiredness where you can barely crawl to the toilet. Where watching TV means lying there with your eyes shut, listening to every word, because opening your eyes takes too much energy.
Sod it, it’s not just the chemo I hate. It’s this bloody cancer journey I hate.
Taxi for one, please. Where to? Anywhere the hell that isn’t here …
Abe came home one day, and I told him that, if I had the energy, I would drive myself off a cliff. I felt like that for five days.
I hate this.
And that hate became my biggest Achilles heel that time round. The tiredness I could rationalise. It was the feeling of defeat I struggled with.
I am tired. I am small. I am scared.
But wait.
Here we are. A week on. And I’ve managed to get through the day without a face-plant. And I think that weird feeling I have is energy.
No. It’s not. It’s joy.
Shit, is it really joy? Wait a second, is that … optimism?
Where the f*ck did you go?
Welcome back. And please don’t leave me again.