Fog

I've been living in a disaffected fog. I'm willing the days to pass with as little pain, as little nausea, as little worry as possible. I went out to my car yesterday at work and just stared into space, feeling not much of anything. I tried to cry but couldn't. I tried to talk to someone - my dad, God, the universe, but felt no one there. I went back into work after housing a bagel - which settled my stomach, as only carbs have been doing - and spoke to no one. Just stared at my computer screen, willing 3:30 to turn into 5. In a work setting, or anywhere that anyone knows what's going on, it's hard trying to act like I'm okay, that I'm handling everything fine, that I'm still feeling positive. It's hard. It's all so much harder than I gave this disease credit for.

I have 9 days left until the last treatment. Let's say 16 days until I start to feel better after that. It's hard to imagine what it will be like. I read somewhere, someone describing how they feel after chemo: "like I'm buried in insecticide." That's how I feel.

I forget how it feels to be enmeshed in my old interests, in my life. Running, working out, loving Mike to my best ability, writing, my dreams, even just carrying on normal conversation, none of it has been possible for some time now. I look at Facebook, at everyone's live's storming ahead, and I'm dumbfounded. What is that like? I can't even read. My mind wanders off...to no where good. I'm exhausted. Recurrence, death, sickness, loneliness, paranoia. That's what is on my brain, with short bouts of hope, or distraction, in between.

I can't mask this. I'm having a terribly rough time. One left. Then I hope the fog lifts, and I can feel joy again. It will be indescribable, I think. It will be unlike anything I've ever experienced.