The doctor recommends I not leave on a plane. Can't believe I made it out here on a plane, but that's beside the point. I was stuck, without having the chance even to say goodbye to my friends in the Chicago area or even my job.
I was, to put it mildly, pissed.
I was convinced that this had been the plan all along, to get me out to my mother's so she could take care of me, to transfer my care to Stanford.
When I had calmed down a little bit, a cooler head told me that yes, I was in a far better place than I had been so far as recovery went, and no one had planned this, but by heaven I should just go with the flow and enjoy the time spent with the family.
I'm out in the pool house, along with my caregiver (I need someone with me 24 hours a day). It's pretty nice, especialy on those days that coincide a good day out and a day where I feel good (which doesn't happen too often).
My stuff has been put into storage by my sister and her sons, who drove up from Atlanta, bless them. My apartment had been surrendered, my car sold... I'm basically living out of the pool house.
I have had good days and bad days - mostly having to do with extreme nausea in my stomach. Some days I think I've never felt such pain. And when I, pardon the expression, throw up, somehow a lot more comes out than went in.
I have been getting chemo once every two weeks, having to wear the darn pump for 72 hours each time. I have a port, sort of a reclosable entrance into my heart, which reduces the number of pin-sticks I have to get.
I have another medicine injected, sub Q, into my stomach morning and night, and seven or eight others morning noon and night, but at least it's not as much as I've seen my father has to take.
So, in summary, I think I'm doing OK.
At least, OK as can be given the circumstances.