Filgrastumulus package
Written Nov 23rd
I haven't left the apartment for a couple of days. This happens with each round of chemo: the crash, the dreaded crash. Round and about ten days after they dose me internally, intravenously, with all of those fun things that challenge the tongue with pique, revelling in difficult pronunciation, I get very, very, very tired. That part actually hasn't happened yet. Based on previous rounds of chemo, I ought to bog down in that moorish swamp of lethargy sometime tomorrow afternoon. That's okay. I'll have a long nap, and it'll resolve itself over the following days.
In the meantime, it is the fifth day of the week of filgrastim, this month of November, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and twelve. What that implies is that I feel physically weird for reasons of medication. The filgrastim forces the hyper-expression of stem cells from the bones of my being. That translates into a persistent vague ache, malaise, and the constant awareness of the throb of my pulse. It is a peculiar sensation, and while it hasn't seemed to worsen woth rounds of chemo, my perception of it has increase dramatically. It is making me cranky, like an infant needing a nap, squalling in my own discomfort. Having said that, it's not that bad. I'm just tired and uncomfortable in my own skin.
There was a point to this...
Ah, I recall. I haven't left the apartment for two days, that was said at the outset. Why that was mentioned is because at seemingly random intervals all day long, the building shook. Sometimes once, sometimes several times in lackadaisical succession. The only information that I could gather from peering out of our windows was that the city was somehow involved, evidenced by dump trucks emblazoned with the emblem of the city services. Every so often, one would drive around the curve of the court, coming from what seemed the epicenter of the shockwaves. It wasn't until my girlfriend came home that I learned that we weren't supposed to drink the water, because maintenance was being performed.
From my vantage, all that could be surmised was that something large was having its way with our building. Godzilla, maybe. The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, more likely. I imagine that from the outside, you'd have been able to see him awkwardly positioning himself, before casually plowing the apartments for a while, pausing for breath for extended periods, and resuming. Boom. Boom. Boom. My computer, my tv, my books, anything upright, would shake in response.
I'm thinking Stay Puft doesn't get a lot of action anymore. Ghostbusters and the legions of adoring, impressionable, eager fans was a long, long time ago, after all.
I haven't left the apartment for a couple of days. This happens with each round of chemo: the crash, the dreaded crash. Round and about ten days after they dose me internally, intravenously, with all of those fun things that challenge the tongue with pique, revelling in difficult pronunciation, I get very, very, very tired. That part actually hasn't happened yet. Based on previous rounds of chemo, I ought to bog down in that moorish swamp of lethargy sometime tomorrow afternoon. That's okay. I'll have a long nap, and it'll resolve itself over the following days.
In the meantime, it is the fifth day of the week of filgrastim, this month of November, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and twelve. What that implies is that I feel physically weird for reasons of medication. The filgrastim forces the hyper-expression of stem cells from the bones of my being. That translates into a persistent vague ache, malaise, and the constant awareness of the throb of my pulse. It is a peculiar sensation, and while it hasn't seemed to worsen woth rounds of chemo, my perception of it has increase dramatically. It is making me cranky, like an infant needing a nap, squalling in my own discomfort. Having said that, it's not that bad. I'm just tired and uncomfortable in my own skin.
There was a point to this...
Ah, I recall. I haven't left the apartment for two days, that was said at the outset. Why that was mentioned is because at seemingly random intervals all day long, the building shook. Sometimes once, sometimes several times in lackadaisical succession. The only information that I could gather from peering out of our windows was that the city was somehow involved, evidenced by dump trucks emblazoned with the emblem of the city services. Every so often, one would drive around the curve of the court, coming from what seemed the epicenter of the shockwaves. It wasn't until my girlfriend came home that I learned that we weren't supposed to drink the water, because maintenance was being performed.
From my vantage, all that could be surmised was that something large was having its way with our building. Godzilla, maybe. The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, more likely. I imagine that from the outside, you'd have been able to see him awkwardly positioning himself, before casually plowing the apartments for a while, pausing for breath for extended periods, and resuming. Boom. Boom. Boom. My computer, my tv, my books, anything upright, would shake in response.
I'm thinking Stay Puft doesn't get a lot of action anymore. Ghostbusters and the legions of adoring, impressionable, eager fans was a long, long time ago, after all.
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