Parenting During Chemo

Yesterday was not a good day.

It had been eight days since my last Adriamycin/Cytoxan chemotherapy treatment. I was implementing all my little tricks to avoid throwing up–sucking on Mentos, taking anti-nausea medication, pretending to be in a hot tub–and it just wasn’t cutting it. I could not stop puking.

There was no one home (not that the family could have done anything for me, except possibly scrape me off the bathroom floor and drag me to bed); I finally managed to fall asleep for an hour until the phone rang over and over, waking me up. On the eighth call, I thought I better pick up. It was my youngest, Jonathan.

“Mom, I’m at Value Village with Adriana and there’s this really cool oil painting here and it’s of the ocean and seagulls and a lighthouse and you know how we’re decorating my room in that kind of stuff and it’s only $9.99 and it has a really nice frame and it matches my room and I could take a picture of it with the cell phone and send it to you and I can use my own money and everything and can I get it please, please, please?”

Now, what I felt like saying was, “Jonathan, you can steal that painting and do crystal meth right now for all I care because I feel like death warmed over,” but I don’t think that would have been a good idea. I really don’t want him to steal or do drugs at the age of thirteen or any other age for that matter, but it sure is hard to concentrate when you’re trying to hang onto your marbles and your stomach all at the same time.

Maybe I should consider getting a nanny to ensure the kids don’t fall into ruin during this cancer business, but for now, I’ll sit on my Jonathan’s floor, gaze at his new painting, and dream of the ocean and the Caribbean.

 

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