Dazed and confused

Saturday, August 30

I stay overnight at the hospital and am released Saturday late morning, feeling not too bad. I think it’s the drugs. I had this notion that I’d still be able to go to the annual tomato tasting that my gardening friends (the Tomatoettes) and I have every fall, dragging Deanna along with me as chauffeur and honorary Tomatoette, but that’s out in Naperville and it’s a bit too far to go considering that I’d probably be good for about half an hour. So of course we instead decide to go to Taste of Polonia. Yes, Polish Fest. Did I mention the drugs?

Luckily Deanna thinks this is a great idea too (note: Deanna = no drugs, me = on drugs), so off we go. And the pierogies, potato pancakes, and polish sausage are definitely worth it, until the drunken Saturday night crowd starts showing up causing me to cradle my bad arm in its sling and start glaring at people. My Polish is limited to saying things like “the beets are lying fallow” or “sour cream, tasty!” so that doesn’t really seem to do much. Deanna and I decide we might as well leave, because after the pierogies, everything else is redundant anyway.

The next week is a haze of fuzziness. My sanity is saved by the coterie of Chicago Tri Club folks who’ve been organized by Bridget to come by every morning and evening to take Kona for a walk or run. Seriously, they’re amazing. And they bring dinner too, until I wind up with a frig full of food and tell folks it’s not necessary anymore. I’m humbled by their generosity.

Well, as humble as I can be, anyway, given my state of near perfection.

Wednesday, September 10

Today’s a dufecta day, with an appointment with Dr. Jeruss in the morning, one with Dr. MerkHottie in the afternoon, and time to kill in between. After hearing from Dr. Jeruss that everything is healing fine, I go to Water Tower for lunch, then find myself really really tired, as usual. Unbeknownst to me until that day, there’s a lounging area on the first floor of Water Tower, amidst the fancy-schmancy boutique shops selling really expensive crap. About 8 or so comfy chairs set up around a couple of tables – there are a few people there when I sit down and close my eyes, just to rest them for a little while. Then I promptly fall asleep. No really, I do. At the mall. When I open my eyes to see that no one else is sitting there any longer, but that the security guards are looking a bit indecisive, I decide to head back to the Galter Center to wait for my next appointment – I figure, that place is crawling with sickly people, and it’s expected that they’ll (we’ll) doze off at a moment’s notice.

The rest of the week I attempt to highly caffeinate myself so that I can GSD (Get Shit Done), but to no avail, as I just keep sleeping the days away. Great. My friends do give me helpful advice however. To wit: that the tiredness is just a result of my “not working out,” and I just need to get out there and exercise. Get on a spin bike! Walk briskly! A light jog! I try to explain that I’ve felt that kind of “tired” that one gets when one is a lazy slug in the off-season with little incentive to get off the couch – and that’s not the kind of tired that makes one fall asleep at the mall. Nevertheless, one evening I decide that I’m just going to “act the part”, i.e wake up the next morning and pretend I feel fine, that everything’s normal. Maybe it IS just all in my head. Maybe the dizziness, headaches, exhaustion, lack of short-term memory, inability to concentrate – maybe that IS all just me being lazy.

The next morning: I swig down 3 cups of (non-black) coffee, and manage to make it to 2PM. With great effort. At which point I’m so exhausted I zonk out immediately for several hours. So much for that idea.

In the meantime, IMMOO was this previous weekend and I went up to volunteer and cheer on m fellow Tri Clubbers doing the race, including Deanna and Jillian. I head up there on Friday loaded down with Deanna’s favorite foods: gummy lifesavers, Doritos, pie. She somehow thinks I’m trying to sabotage her, rather than seeing this as my attempt to help her carbload properly. I’m incredibly hurt. I buy her another pie at the Saturday farmer’s market there, hoping to smooth things over, but again she looks askance at my peace offering. Shrug. I’m sure she’ll see things differently when she finds the pie in her Special Needs bag and a block of cheese in her bento box – I can’t see why she’d need the Powergels that were in there anyway.

Deanna and I also have a revelatory conversation at this time about my cancer.

Me: So not that I would pull out the old cancer excuse or anything, but...
Deanna, interrupting: You can’t use that anymore. You don’t have cancer.
Me, gaping at her: Say wha...??
Deanna: You had surgery. They took the cancer out. So you don’t have it anymore.
Me: But....but.....I still have stitches!! Bandages, even!
Deanna, firmly: Okay, so maybe just until the stitches are out. No longer.
Me: But what about the rest of my treatment? The radiation, say??!
Deanna: Nope, doesn’t count.

Deanna can be quite the hardass when it comes to this stuff. Say, she wouldn’t notice the difference between, say, her Infinit mixture on her bike and something like lime Koolaid, would she???

But somehow, in spite of my "assistance," Deanna did great at her first Ironman, cheese and all. I think she was inspired to greatness by knowing that she had her own special prop at Cross Plains, namely Pepto the bunny in, yes, a blue barrel. For you, Deanna, it was worth it.

(coming soon/eventually: Team in Bacon at the Susan G. Komen Race, my new diet plan for October, and why you don’t want to argue with the man with the electrodes)