D Day Minus 192: (August 28, 2009): The Rest is Downhill

Earlier today you gave me a full report on your last day of chemo.  I was at work making us some money.  Maryann, our next door neighbor, had the con.  She spoiled you with:

• lunch from Paneras
• inspiring and fun conversation about cooking, Wegmans, and healthy living including yoga and exercise
• strategic silences when Atavan hit and during your endless trips to the bathroom after the nurse gave you the medication that started with an “L.”   

You bragged about getting out in record time, 1:30, even though you got your port flushed.   We talked about how lucky we were to have Maryann and her husband Craig in our lives.  I said I loved them. You said, “I do too.”  You were doing pretty well, but were going to hang around the house.  You said, “This should be the worst day, you know Mom, because of the cumulative effect. The rest is downhill from here.  But, today and tomorrow are going to suck.”  You paused for a second and added, “Big time.”

I was excited for Morgan because she only had a week before she had completed her first round of P90X.  I told her to order her P90X tank and I would pay her back.  I wanted one but didn’t want to get it without really doing P90X because that would be cheating. Then I complained that “damn Morgan is gonna want to raid my closet because she's almost my size and that she’d better ask first or else.” I rambled about that topic for a few minutes before I took a breath and  asked, “Do you want to try to do P90x with me?” Then I promised not to embarrass you too much.  You laughed a little and said, “Let me get my store opened first, then I’ll see after that.  Remember, I still want to do some martial arts class with Katie and you.”  That was all I needed to break out into my rendition of Kung Fu Fighting.  You were lucky you couldn’t see my moves.  On second thought you have and probably imagined my seizure-like moves with a high kick that nearly knocked me on my a** everytime.  After I piped down, I told you to get some rest and take it easy.  And that I loved you so friggin much.  You said, “Me too.”

When I got home, Giada’s Everday Italian was on the TV and you were sprawled out on the well-worn cream leather couch in the family room.  Blankets were tossed on the floor and you asked, “Is it hot to you?” while I hid my half full Diet Mountain Dew behind some of Dad’s stuff on the counter.  “No, it’s not hot.  I was looking for my sweater.”  You said something about chemo messing your body up.


I stayed with you and we planned the evening, something like soup or macaroni and cheese for dinner, Dad working late, me doing my Power Yoga with my boyfriend Bryan Kest, you talking to Katie before she went to work the night shift, and taking your anti-nausea meds to stay ahead of the wake of chemo side effects, and going to bed soon. 

After I did my workout, I checked on you.  You were buried in a mountain of blankets in bed.  Only your feet clad in socks were hanging out like they always did so they could breathe.  I sat on the floor next to ou.  Either you were really out of it or I’d mastered my ninja skills because you didn’t move.  I watched your nose and chest just make sure you were still breathing.  Then I took a deep breath and watched you until my heart slowed down.  I thought about what you said earlier, “The rest is downhill from here.” And said a silent, “Thank God.”