The third consecutive day without even a single lengthy nap—and without feeling weak and a bit feeble—did not sustain itself through last night. Five hours after going to bed early, I woke with nausea, which worsened and led me to empty the contents of my stomach. After rinsing away the evidence of the event from my face and mouth, I took an under-the-tongue anti-nausea pill, which seems to have worked reasonably well. However, I feel extremely tired at the moment and my head is pounding just enough to be irritating; I may return to bed soon in an attempt to sleep the sense of fatigue away. If I knew the degree to which my body is successful in its fight against my cancer, I probably would feel better—at least mentally. That knowledge, though, will have to wait until my next set of scans and other measures. When my body and my brain conspire with one another—like they are this morning—I cannot seem to muster the energy for optimism. But I am not pessimistic, either. I simply acknowledge the reality that I cannot control how well or how poorly chemotherapy is working for me. We want to be in control, but we rarely are. It is best to recognize that fact and take whatever comes.
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For the moment, my energy is inadequate to permit me to continue rambling on. I will try, again, to sleep. The several pee-breaks last night, along with the nausea, have left me feeling spent and withered. Perhaps a bit more sleep will heal whatever ails me. I will count on it.
