a chemo vacation

Some folks have demanding careers, others have demanding families. Me? My daily grind is managing the Big C. 

Doctor’s appointments, chemotherapy sessions, and (possibly the worst of all) regular weigh-ins. Cancer is a constant responsibility, something I have to adjust my life around.

Take, for instance, planning trips, which I’m in the process of doing. My mom and I are traveling this summer, but before I can buy tickets or book a hotel, I have to make sure my getaway doesn’t interfere with my cancer. Where I come from, a manager doesn’t approve time off; a doctor does.  

If I’m going to miss a week of chemo, I have to let her know. If I’m not feeling well, I have to call in. Running late? Tell someone in her office. She’s like my new boss — only I like her. 

My cancer routine is so, well, routine that I rarely give it a second thought. Then, lo and behold — I  get a week off.

No checking in with the boss, no popping pills, and no white blood cell counts. My taste buds stop flipping out (hello, coffee) and my body feels whole again (hello, martini). I’m not fatigued, nor am I on cancer gyrl autopilot. 

My chemo vacation arrives after back-to-back sessions, and I swear the sun shines a bit brighter during those seven days. I get a flash of what it was like before cancer came my way. Sometimes, I even forget I have it.

Last week was my off week, and I kept wondering why I felt so giddy. I even contemplated a karaoke outing with some co-workers before it was postponed. In a world where normal means saline solutions and white coats, grabbing a mic and singing Pat Benatar hits sounded like big fun. 

But, alas, my chemo-free vacation has come to an end, and I’m gearing up for my next cycle. Actually, I’m getting hooked up to the juice as I write this. It’ll be another two weeks of putting cancer first, or, as I like to say, returning to my day job.