Dating Chemo

I'm going to be spending 4 hours alone with my chemo infusion every 2 weeks. That's 12 hot dates with a guy that just wants me to sit down, relax and read all the trashy magazines I usually only get my hands on at the salon.

That's almost as romantic as a guy asking you out on a date and taking you to Target. Take notes single men, no woman will be disappointed if you take her on a date to Target. It's our favorite place. Ever.

You start her out at Starbucks and spend the next two hours walking up and down every single aisle, taking turns pushing the cart, checking end caps for clearance stuff. You romantically link arms and drink your lattes as you wander around and pretend there's something romantic about mood setting florescent overhead lighting.

We won't notice if we briefly lose you in electronics, because you can just catch up with us on the magazine aisle reading People, Teen Vogue and Us Weekly Runner's World, Newsweek and Real Simple.

The problem with dating chemo is he doesn't take me to Target. He knocks on my door, brings me flowers and tells me I'm pretty. And just when he has me suckered in, he drops the gentleman act, takes me to some dive bar, buys me cheap beer by the bucket and leaves me with a hangover that last for days.

After 48 hours of consecutive sleep that can only be likened to a bad night out on the town, that bucket of beer ran its course, my pump ran out of drugs and I started to open my mascara-encrusted eyes again.

Perhaps it was a tad bit psychosomatic, but I started to feel normal within an hour of my pump turning off and drugs ceasing to enter into my body. Headache gone, fatigue gone, desire to lay in bed motionless and drool gone. I didn't care that I hadn't showered in days, had makeup all over my face and no eyebrows on. I was ready to see some sunshine, face the world again and get disconnected from my European Man Purse.

I have survived my first infusion. I'm sure it only gets worse from here.

Laying the ground work with some anti-nausea drugs.
Drip, drip, drip go the drugs of choice.
Expanding my mind and broadening my closet.
Don't worry, this little pump will get his own blog post.
 *On a side note, for those of you have have never experienced a hangover, think of it as the flu, only self-inflicted.

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