By Monday I am feeling almost "normal". My appetite is better. I am even hungry at times. That is, there are moments in the day when the usual rumblings of the tummy tell me, "time to eat". And those rumblings actually occur on Mondays. The other days? Well, they are either filled with rumblings of "you'd better not eat" or no sense at all. When I must remind myself that I need to eat something in order to maintain strength and health.
By Monday my muscles are not so wobbly. My brain seems sharper, albeit that is a relative statement. By Monday my energy level and stamina seem almost freeing. Promises of days of vitality.
By Monday evening I even eat a cookie... and it tastes good.
But by Monday night the weekly remembrance that I will awaken to yet another chemo-filled-day steals away my sleep. For I dread not the cancer destroying chemo in and of itself, but I dread the side effects of nausea, belly aches, muscle fatigue, increased night sweats, brain fog, and nasty tasting glutamine. Remembering this leads to an inability to sleep on Monday nights. Yes, a reflection of the anxiety in my heart.
Psalm 30:5b says "Weeping may tarry for the night but joy comes with the morning."
There is powerful truth here. Farmer Husband Gary often reminds me when I'm struggling emotionally at the close of the day, "It'll be better in the morning." And usually it proves to be true. The weariness of the mind, heart, and body at the close of the day warps the perception of reality. But rest gives clarity. Perhaps that is why thanksgiving for "whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise..." is the perfect prescription to combat anxiety... even chemo-derived anxieties.
Monday evenings are followed by Tuesday mornings. Mornings in which I feel pretty good physically but pretty tired emotionally and mentally. Yet I will walk into the infusion center in an hour or so with a smile for the staff and nurses. Sit in my little reclining infusion chair and receive my five hours of medicine with a grateful heart. Truly thankful that it seems as though the large tumor is reducing in size. And truly thankful and hopeful that any other little tumor cell in the body is also being reduced and eliminated as well.
Today's Journey Joys: freedom and the privilege to vote in our state's primary, fat bandit-faced raccoon, more birds returning to sing in the morning chorus, Kathy-dear-friend coming to visit during chemo, peace - an amazing grace.
