Waiting for humpday

By this point last time I think I was getting ready to scarf some Triple O and make haste with the lingering nausea of round two. This time around I may have dabbled in BLTs on day two, but the edge of varminting is as close today as it was several days ago, if not worse.

I have the girls this week, and I really shouldn't complain. It's the only solid post-chemo week that I'll have them to myself, but fuck, I wish I could do stuff with them without feeling like a hurl is just around the corner. They've been pretty great so far - minus a handful of inexplicable meltdowns from Stella that are rocking the neighbourhood - but my itinerary isn't exactly inspiring. We get out. We bake. We bead. We clean. We walk. No dear diary stuff here. But the fact that I refuse to take any more anti-nauseants makes it all so tenuous.

Stella is across the street right now, playing with her friend. Frances is having a blessed nap. And I'm downing fibre, fruit and water before I collapse in front of a bag of Hickory Sticks to give into the one shred of food craving I've been able to muster. No sign of hunger yet for this round. Eating to stave off the blowtorch taste in my mouth and be social with my girls. And if anyone mentions round four coming up in two weeks, I will likely load my close-range slingslot. Be warned.