Dry Mouth, Dark Humor, Still Alive

The day after: the poison comes back to visit like an unwanted in-law.
It wades where it pleases — stabs, jabs, puddles of outrage in my bones.
The shoulder cedes first, a tiny drill bit burrowing in until it’s bored its way to the middle of my back.
My head’s a foggy TV zone and all I want is a long nap, but then the hips join the pity party.

Is there a silver lining? Sure — it’s passing through. Slowly. Like a moving train that refuses to be quiet.
Nausea tags along like a bad joke. Dry mouth, too. The more I drink, the more my stomach stages a protest.
I don’t want to sleep away the days I still own. I don’t want chemo to be the weather report for my life.

No Tylenol, no Motrin, no miracle dime-store fix. The pain pools and pounds and nobody gets to leave early.
But here’s the part I keep repeating until I believe it: I am stronger than the fear in my head.
I can fight harder than my doubts allow. I am more than a count on a lab sheet.
More than nausea. More than a chair in an infusion room.

I want to live — not someday, not after the list of “ifs” — today.
I will live. And if the poison thinks it can make me quiet about that, it can try.