To Hell and Back on a Sofa

I had my third chemo session, last Wednesday (Jan. 26), and was being particularly attentive to my reaction on a day-by-
day basis afterwards.  We had reservations for a ski holiday, the departure scheduled four days after the next chemo (Feb. 15), so Mr. T and I devised a plan wherein I would judge how I was doing after this treatment in order to determine if we would maintain the reservation or cancel it.  Our plans were to repeat our experience of last year, when we took Charlotte skiing on an off-holiday week.  Since she is not yet in grade school she can occasionally skip school. This year's reservations also corresponded with Émilie's school ski trip, 'classe de neige', so that both girls would have chance to ski.  It was out of the question for me to get on skis, but at least Mr. T could sign up for a class and we could "get away from it all".  
So Day 4 rolls around and it's not looking so good.  Judging based on my personal scale --  Just Fine, Fair to Middlin', So-So, Like Shit, Like Hammered Dog Shit -- I was feeling Like Shit.  But I kept trying to rationalize and force the outcome:  "You just have to sit on a train.  It's only 5 hours.  We could take a taxi instead of a bus when we get there.  etc."  How I feel is determined to a large extent by the strength that I have in my legs.  When I stand up I can determine if I have a strong support or if I'm wobbly or even worse, trembling.  Day 5 comes and I save up by strength all day since we have a cinema date with a friend in the evening.  I manage that, but am exhausted by the time I get home.  Comparing a ten-minute drive to the cinema to the five hour+ train ride in the same condition, I slowly started to face reality, but was still hoping for a miraculous improvement the next morning.
Day 6 sees me feeling like Hammered Dog Shit as soon as I wake up, so I take a paracetamol and after breakfast I immediately head for the living room sofa. The persistent, nagging pain centered in my lower abdomen has not been touched and shows no sign of slacking.  I call Dr. Forton, who prepares a prescription for a pain blocker, and Mr. T., coffee cup in hand, abandons his plans for a calm morning at work and dons his cross-town courrier uniform to fetch the prescription and then go to the pharmacy.   Meanwhile, all I can do is wait.
I realize that according to what Dr. D had told me, the pain is really a good sign.  It's related to the necrosis of the tumeurs, and that the smaller in volume the tumeurs become, the more readily the chemo molecules can penetrate into them and attack them even more.  I entertain images from the Wizard of Oz of the Wicked Witch of the West, agonizingly crying "I'm melting, I'm melting!" after Dorothy (played by Dr. Delvaleriola) douses her with a bucket of Taxol/carboplatin. Fine, but what about evacuating that smouldering lump of black goo that remains behind, the obvious source of my pain?   I'm praying for some kind of out-of-body experience, for some Cosmic Gendarme to come along and say "Would you please step out of the vehicle, ma'aam?" "Yes, Officer, I'd love to but there are no handles on the door!".  Just relax and breathe, relax and breathe.
Mr. T returns with the goods and I let the first tablet melt under my tongue.  The notice assures me that the effects will occur in 30 minutes and will last for 6 hours.  I mechanically eat my lunch and then drag myself up to bed where the rest of the day, evening and night are all melded into one long haze of sleeping, relaxing, breathing, waiting for this, too, to pass but wondering if it isn't going to take me along with it on the way.
The next morning, the cards on the table.  If this could happen again the next time, the thought of even leaving the house is beyond me.  The ski vacation is quickly cancelled, but the bitterness of the decision lingers on as an aftertaste for days.  I'm relieved to have finally decided but incredibly disappointed that I have to abandon our trip with Charlotte.  I am forced to admit that I'm not in control of how my body reacts and consequently life, for the moment, is not as per usual and can't be planned weeks in advance.  At the same time, I realize that no one else can decide what's best for me, that I'm the only one living in this body, and my first concern above all else is to take care of myself.
One of the amazing features of the human body is that we have no memory for pain.  We can remember that we were or have been in pain, but we can't recall the exact sensation.    So once the major discomfort was dealt with, then all of a sudden the minor ones lined up to start whining for attention.  "What about us?" moans Tingling Hands and Feet?" "No, I'm next!", pleads Pounding Heart!"  "Poor us", laments Tired Legs.  Pfff. No wonder people say that when you've got your health you've got everything. 
Fortunately, when I woke up this morning, I felt Just Fine.