Infusion 8

I have six hairs on my left eyebrow and four on my right. I also have an eyelash fiercely clinging to my right upper lid. It's the final one and it looks like a claw. When I asked Jason if he had noticed it, he casually remarked in between bites of food, "Of course and it looks weird."

I'm trying hard to keep that eyelash just so it continues to bug him.

(Just now I asked Jason if he liked my eyelash and I blinked a few times to make him notice. His response: "Don't even do that to me.")

Part of my role as patient is to be a bit bothersome. Jason is a nervous caregiver. For good reason, however, I'm tired of being housebound. I tell him he's locked me in his pumpkin shell. I'm also aware that I need to make sure he doesn't die of a heart attack over this entire ordeal.

Whenever possible, I make Jason leave to blow off steam. He will go off to play pool, play poker or hike at the coast. He splurged on a fabulous dinner and wine pairing at Beaux Freres. I hope he doesn't feel guilty, but I know he does. It's a dance, for sure. His friends--our friends--have been so supportive. One even drove down from Seattle to be with Jason for the first pool night with the guys after Jason had a really bad week. Sometimes we don't feel we deserve all the kindness coming our way. Everyone has so much love to give.

My 8th infusion marked the end of my chemo vacation. I've started to call my treatments, Chemo Spa Days. I'm back in the chair. I'm back to pounding tall glasses of water, peeing four times during the night, changing and laundering the sheets everyday. I'm back to smelling like a stale tuna fish can.

I am so sick of this shit. Onward.