Today is Chemo Cocktail Day.
For those of you who do not have cancer and get to miss out on this fun little lounge party, let me explain to you what it's like.
In the past, on Sunday morning, I would wake up and find myself feeling a black cloud of doom lingering over my head. I'm usually a glass is half full kind of gal but Sunday's bummed me out because I knew that the next day was Monday. And we all know what that means: work.
It's hard to get ramped up for a week of stress, endless emails, countless meetings, and a lot of mixed messages. So, I would usually spend Sunday trying to find my zone, prepare my game face, for the upcoming week. By Monday morning, I would be a little snappy until my third cup of coffee. My family knew the rules: don't feed the lion! Translation in our house: Don't talk to Mommy on Monday morning.
By the time I finally arrived at work, I would have slipped into my zone. A smile on my face, I'd greet the security guards with my typical sing-song "Helllloooo!", give my special co-worker-friends their Monday morning hug, and do the dreaded task of opening my laptop to check the 400 emails that had clogged my system since Friday.
That's how facing Chemo Cocktail Lounge Day feels.
Last night, I was cranky. Yes, I DO get cranky. My husband and I got into a wild debate about the youth in America and the ills of the world. Normally, this would be a fun debate (which, cough cough, I usually win or at least annoy him enough so that he feigns defeat). However, I felt my blood pressure rising last night and knew that I had to retreat quickly. I was taking the debate just a little too seriously and I knew exactly why: Chemo Cocktail Day.
This morning, I awoke early and realized that there was no escape. I had no choice but to get up, get ready, and face the fact that I needed to spend the afternoon stuck in the Lounge without the benefit of my sister, besties Kathryn or Erin, or my boys from Paris.
"Shall I go with you?" my husband asked.
"Mom's coming."
He lit up, obviously liking my announcement. "Maybe I'll join you."
Ouch. "Uh, that's OK," I replied, an instant increase to my heart rates. The image of the two of them together was enough to cause me immediate distress: Mom with her yellow pad and black felt marker trying to help organize my chaotic life while fighting tears and Hub with his laptop, asking me a bazillion questions about how to connect to the hospital's WiFi. Shudder. "That would be like spreading napalm in the lounge. I'm good."
The thought of Mom attending my Chemo Party for the first time (it ain't for the weak, my friends) mixed with my husband and his European born philosophy of how to behave in the lounge (which does NOT include laughing, videotaping, or listening to Pitbull) is not my idea of a rocking A-List party. In fact, I envision THIS party being a really dud.
My hub laughed at me and said, "It's good for you to have a real chemo experience for once." And then he rubbed my head...which probably caused two hundred hairs to cling to his hand as they were liberated from my scalp, yelling "WHEEEEE! Freedom!"
Real chemo experience. Yeah right. Is there such a thing????
Wish me luck, my friends.
P.S. For the record, my mom IS fun. I'm just anxious about her reaction today...
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