The kids fended for themselves as I laid in bed for days; meticulously timing by nausea pills to hours that were multiples of 4.
All I could do was assume the downstairs looked like a frat house on any given Sunday morning.
I could hear the occasional cabinet door slam, thanked PBS for its endless cartoons and waited for Lachlan to bring me yet another breakfast bar to open.
I listened as Merrick described in intimate detail how he poured the milk onto his cereal without spilling too much on the counter - but it was OK because he just licked up the mess.
I sighed and rolled over, wondering why sleep alluded me and damning the steroids I usually avoided, merely because they kept me awake. I made a mental note to have them removed from my regimen, for I noticed little difference in my nausea with or without them.
I made a mental list of my priorities, like buying room darkening shades, going back to work and exfoliating.
Then the light in the room started to started to shift, and the sound of the garage door opening was like the whistle at shift change. I was off the clock and could roll over in bed and enjoy chemo with my door shut.