Today was the second session on the trainer in a row that I skipped. I’m not proud of this, but even I have to admit that overdoing it is not always the best strategy. Sunday went as expected for the most part. I was still a bit weak in the morning but better than the previous day. I relaxed with a book and let the children play with mommy, except for brief forays into ambitious railroad construction.
After lunch we took the train to Zurich to go to one of our favorite places. Josefwiese is a large patch of grass at the former edge of town, bordered by a railway viaduct and an enormous rubbish incinerator, the surroundings a bit neglected. I wrote about Josefwiese when we came there a year ago to watch a cross race. The area stretching further away from town, starting beyond the railway viaduct, exudes a very Swiss kind of hipness, wannabe but not caring too much, somewhat forlorn among the concrete.
When we got back in the late afternoon, I felt rather poorly again. I thought it might have something to do with the cold. Not that it was, but I was. I lay down in my bed, warming up, taking advantage of the 45 minutes until I’d have to start preparing the fondue. We had bought the burning paste earlier.
As I was lying there, I could feel the cold leave my body and then heat stirring through it. My lips started burning, then my cheeks, until my face felt on fire. My hands were also very hot. The time to start cooking came – I half-convinced myself I would get up if someone prompted me – and went. When Flucha came, an hour later, my temperature was 40 degrees. The leaflet from the hospital exhorts me to contact them as soon as I hit 38.5°ree; and warns of life in danger. Strange thing was, I felt much better overall than at any point during the previous 48 hours. Still tired, but certainly more alive.
I called the hospital. The physician on duty, unfamiliar with my state and my case, wasn’t overly concerned. He bemoaned that it’s impossible to say anything for sure over the phone and that I should come in if I wanted to know more. They’d take blood and try to identify the cause of my misery. As he left the decision to come to me (my oncologist later told me she wouldn’t have), I declined. No way I’d leave my bed with a fever of 40 degrees.
Four hours later – Flucha had just finished subduing rather unruly children – I felt pangs of hunger and got up to see if there was any dinner left. My temperature registered at just above 37. I ate a bit, drank a lot and went back to bed, sleeping rather sweatily until the next morning. I thought everything was over.
It wasn’t. The next morning, I felt too weak to go to work. Hard to explain what it was. A bit like a strong cold. Nose running, one ear with a strange sensation, an odd patch on my throat. I thought I might still be able to do home office but spent most of the day in bed or on the sofa. Today, after another sweaty night and a morning with around 37 degrees, was similar, though I made it to work (maybe not the smartest move).
The strangest thing in this entire boring saga is my nose. It’s running blood and snot at the same time. Every time I blow my nose – and I’ve now forced myself to almost stop it – I expunge half of the mucous lining of each nostril. Fresh dark red blood follows. It’s an unholy mess, far from pretty to look at, though not particularly painful. It makes breathing difficult and sleep less restful. I wonder how much my nose will recover. Will I retain a sense of smell at all? At this point, despite the minimal side effects, I can’t really wait for chemo to be over. It’s a huge pain, even if it’s not painful, and I'm sick of it. But it’s only two-and-a-half more weeks.
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