33 Days Post Poisoning

It has been 33 days since my last official poisoning by chemotherapy.
Yes, poisoning. Let’s not sugarcoat it — this was not a spa treatment.

And yet… the effects are still hanging around like an unwanted houseguest who “just needs one more night” and has now been here a month.

Exhaustion, I have learned, is not just being tired.

No no.

Exhaustion is a personality.

Some days I wake up feeling like a fully functioning human. I do all the things.
Laundry? Done.
Errands? Conquered.
Cooking? Look at me being domestic.

This energetic miracle can last for several days and I start thinking wildly optimistic thoughts like:

“Well hell, maybe I’m fine now.”

That is when the reckoning arrives.

For the next day or two, I am emotionally and physically paralyzed — like every energetic molecule has been vacuumed straight out of my body. The only known treatment is full vegetation on the couch.

Not resting.
Not relaxing.

Vegetating.

My brain refuses to form orderly thoughts, so I watch television shows I’ve already seen. Not because they’re good — but because they require absolutely no participation. I cannot handle plot twists. I cannot meet new characters. I cannot commit.

I need television that says,
“Don’t worry. You already know how this ends.”

Looking back, this happened the last time too. I just assumed it was because I had an open wound trying to kill me from the inside. Reasonable conclusion.

This time, though, there’s no open wound.
There is, however, the minor detail that I am 21 years older.

So naturally I thought,
“Oh. This must just be because I’m 69.”

But no.

Turns out it’s not age.
It’s chemo — still swinging long after the bell rang.

If history repeats itself (and cancer does love consistency), this phase will pass too.

Which brings me to my current burning question:

What the hell comes after this?

Do I get energy?
Brain cells?
Motivation?
A complimentary tote bag?

No idea.

But for now, I will remain on the couch, staring blankly at familiar TV characters who ask absolutely nothing of me — and waiting for my body to remember how to be human again.

One day at a time.
Preferably with snacks.