My birthday passed quietly. As I start year #69, that was a fine way to begin--or as I celebrated my 44th birthday if I continue to use the hexadecimal system of counting that is so much more forgiving than the decimal system. We went out to dinner. Mohamed ordered well; I didn't. It's probably too early to draw any conclusions about the reduced dosage of the chemo (down from 600 mg a day to 400 mg) and a similarly reduced amount of one of the blood pressure medicines, but the last week has seemed better than the two or three rather miserable weeks that came before. My stomach seems more settled (despite my bad birthday dinner choice), and although I still crash at least twice a day, the periods of sleep have been somewhat shorter.
As I talked about the cancerous body in the last blog and its mysterious workings, I should also add how one's circadian rhythms are totally disrupted. Some of us are morning people; some night owls. Some wake up full of energy and ready to start talking; others want silence until after coffee and half an hour of becoming themselves. Many people flag at some point in the afternoon. Some settle for more coffee or Red Bull; others want a power nap--or a long siesta. But everyone has a basic rhythm (and one that partners had better adapt to). And then suddenly, after six decades of the same pattern, I lost control of how my body reacts. I wake up at 4 one morning; at 8 the next. It doesn't make any difference, though, because after three hours, my body is going to shut down. I can't get to the shower because the bed intervenes. I sleep for an hour and then gradually pull myself awake, I who have always been instantly fully alert and ready to chatter. I know that after about three good hours, I'm going to crash again--not the twenty-minute "power naps" that I used to love, but two full hours of deep sleep. The evenings are less regular. On my birthday, by late afternoon I was feeling nauseated and had no desire to get off the couch. We went out anyway, and though dinner wasn't very good, in the middle of my dried-out steak, I suddenly felt a burst of energy, which lasted for another three hours. As with so many effects of the cancer and of the chemo, what my body does is out of my control. How I've lived and coped for all these years is no longer relevant. And my whole self-image has changed in unpredictable and unexpected ways--unpredictable not in just the long run but from one minute to the next.
Despite our stereotypes of Lebanese or Egyptian men covered in gold chains, in the part of the Arab world where Mohamed comes from, men do not wear jewelry and never gold. We had decided not to exchange wedding rings, but a couple of days ago we broke down and decided that an "outward and visible sign" of our new "inward and invisible state" would be good. So we ordered brushed white gold rings.
I've written before about my home town, Story City, which is about 40 miles north of Des Moines. If my energy level is good next Wednesday, after we pick up the marriage licenses, we'll make the drive north for a "tour" of Story City (it had a population of fewer than 2,000 when I was growing up, so it isn't going to take long to visit the town). My parents and maternal grandparents are buried there, so we can visit their graves. The other day I got a nice note from one of my classmates. We graduated from high school 50 years ago, and we haven't seen each other since, though we've exchanged holiday cards and notes. I told her that I was going to be in Story City on the 24th, so we're going to get together for lunch. I don't want to romanticize my childhood too much, but I think it is indicative that she's meeting a gay man with his Muslim fiancé as they prepare to marry that evening--and her only reaction was pleasure.
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