"The conversation had been brisk and pleasant when suddenly and simultaneously, everyone just got dog tired." - One of my all-time, favorite Far Side cartoons, which I am now living on a daily basis.
My unfamiliarity with sleepiness is well-documented. I am a certifiable spaz, an insomniac. I've been getting by on about 4-5 hours of sleep per night for as long as I can remember. The entire concept of napping has always been a joke that was way over my head. The only way I could ever (ever!) catch some midday ZZZs was via a self-induced Nyquil coma, usually brought on by some kind of heartache or moral hangover. I was aware this A/C chemo "one-two punch" promised fatigue, but this is ridiculous. Almost blindsiding. I am counting my blessings as I have had zero nausea the whole time, but every day, I get dog tired. Everything stops and I just have to lie down. Not just for a minute, but for, like, the rest of the day and possibly into the next one. It's the treatment. It's not just attacking the rogue cancer cells, but the healthy cells as well, even the excitable insomnia ones, laying waste to the little spaz inside my soul. That said, I was supposed to be at the Blarney Stone in Dorchester today, celebrating Mr. Bean's 41st birthday since he was in Australia last year for his 40th. And Code Red's 20-19th birthday as well. Good intentions: The kids were at my sister-in-law Amy's for the afternoon. I went out and bought some birthday cards, had my unwieldy eyebrows threaded by Nanda, then ran to Trader Joe's for some bananas and blueberries. The entire journey took less than 42 minutes. I was enjoying a pre-party turkey sandwich with James in the kitchen when he began eyeing me suspiciously:
"I'm fine. I think I just have to lie down for about 10 minutes and I'll be good to go."
But within five minutes, it was like I'd been chloroformed by a gloved villain. Two hours later, James walks into our room. It's dark outside now. I'm spread eagle in my red t-shirt that ironically reads "Fueled by Determination" (determination, my ass, but many thanks to Katie N.) LV's "chill" CD is playing on my laptop, which has somehow sandwiched itself around my left leg like some kind of live trap. I'd also apparently lit some Molton Brown candelas as evidenced by the overwhelming aroma of Moroccan eucalyptus. James blows out the candles and says he's going to pick up the kids. Then I fall back to sleep again.
So...Happy, happy birthday to Mr. Bean and Code Red! I was sorry to miss you today! I did, however, raise a toast to you somewhere deep in REM-sleep that for whatever reason involved a dream about the Alpine Slide.