I’d like to draw you a picture, but it will have to wait. As I type this I’m trying to avoid staring at the screen, because there is something about computers after chemo that feels repulsive.

This treatment was better. They prescribed me a stronger anti-vomiting drug, and it made a difference. Now, that isn’t to say it was a walk in the park. While this drug stops the vomiting, it definitely doesn’t stop the nausea. However – the more I could keep in, the more my body had to work with. And today, Monday, the nausea is passing.

This treatment was different. Instead of my mom and Zsolt pacing the floor, it was Zsolt and his parents keeping watch. I feel for the carers of people who are ill. It must be a lot on your shoulders – but I have to say, as a person currently on the other side, there are not enough words to express the gratitude. A hard situation becomes so much easier with a few kind words, a few moments of attention – Zsolt has been absolutely incredible this weekend, and having his family near has helped him cope with the heavy load. I’m very grateful.

Now is the boring part of chemotherapy. Boring because there is little to do but recover (though I’ll take boring over sick any day). An exception worth mentioning: I have been playing a Hungarian card game with Anna and Anita, and that was actually quite fun. Too bad one hand of cards leaves me exhausted, but it won’t last forever.

The tricky thing, which I’m doing my best with, is now the hair. Zsolt kindly lent me his black fleece to wear over the weekend, and the back is covered with strands. I haven’t reached the point of shaving, but we’ll see. Once it’s gone, it will be gone – I can already imagine the mixture of relief and regret. But I think there is no harm in waiting a little longer.

Ok, summarize. I am doing okay. The weekend wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t a nightmare either. The next two weeks are mine and not cancer’s; I’ll be doing my best to enjoy them thoroughly. Also, as an aside, we are on the brink of buying a car. This will be our very first car – it’s a purchase to remember. Zsolt is trying to strike a deal as I type. Good thoughts for my bargaining man!

Tomorrow is another round of chemotherapy. Today was another visit to the oncologist.

After getting my weight and blood taken (as she draws the blood, Zsolt and I count to fifty – though today we only made it to about 22), we visit with the oncologist. Every time I’ve gone, I’ve met a different doctor. Zsolt and I have a theory that the medical community would prefer to avoid emotional attachments. So, if I always have a different nurse/doctor distance is easier to maintain. It’s understandable; in my note taking job we are strongly discouraged from becoming friends with our students . . . something about a student taking things too far once with a note taker. Whatever. My stalking career once consisted of following cute boys around the mall with friends, but that was about 16 years ago. (Holy getting older, Batman)

Anyhow, we met with a lovely young doctor with excellent blond hair. She welcomed us into the room, Zsolt and I took our seats, and then she asked how the last chemo session went.

“Worst weekend ever,” might have been a reply – but I guess there are worse weekends, considering all the possible bad weekends that exist. So instead I said, “no good,” which seems a reasonable response. We explained the vomiting and the nausea and the general weakness.

Good news is that apart from the sickness, my experience was normal. I was wiped out, I recovered: normal. More good news is that she’ll be prescribing me stronger stuff for tomorrow, and if these drugs do their job she’ll be my favourite oncologist ever.

So last session was a learning experience; not just for us, but for the doctors too. Tomorrow will, hopefully, be less of an education.

You know how pets behave around the vet? My old golden retriever (sweetest dog ever) was a big coward whenever she realized where we’d arrived. I think animals can smell the fear. Well thankfully I can’t smell people’s fear, but I do remember my last chemo experience. Unlike my dog, I don’t need to be dragged through the sliding glass doors . . . but like her, I may be shaking – just a little bit.

Tomorrow will be better, one way or another. And then I can forget that initial impression. Time for bed, and tomorrow – time to get on with it!