Upstairs

It's time to break the fast that never was.  I'm not allowed to fast, and when my family appeared it turned out they hadn't, either.  Lori is breastfeeding, and Jill is training too hard for her Ironman triathlon, which is in three weeks.  Ken isn't observant this year, and my big kids are simply not observant.  Jonah is 9.  My mother is still not doing so hot.

I did attend the morning service today, during which I spent much time reflecting about my synagogue and my community.  I've always loved my town.  I've always said I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.  This morning I reconfirmed that I am in the perfect place.  A judgment free synagogue, an integrated community where anyone is welcome.  Is it just my perspective, or is it real?  It's always been my perspective, so I will not attribute it to the cancer.  I honestly think it's real.  So wonderful ...

But here I am, upstairs.  Everyone else is downstairs.  This never happens anymore.  I'm feeling nauseous and don't trust myself to look at food, let alone eat.  I hear the happy conversation in the dining room.  My brother-in-law's laugh, Jonah's opinions, Ken's take on the new tv season, an occasional gurgle from Jack.  I want to join them.  Maybe once I write this blog I'll feel well enough.  Maybe even sooner, and I'll finish the blog later.

I'm concerned.  Why am I suddenly not feeling well?  Why is my hair starting to grow?  After my Xeloda experience, my mind immediately takes me to one conclusion:  the chemo has stopped working.  Why is my hair starting to grow?  It makes no sense.  My third and final treatment of the current cycle was on Monday, so I don't even return to Penn for nearly two weeks.  Then I'll have my tumor marker test and wait yet another week for the result.  Do you feel the suspense as well? 

I don't take feeling well for granted.  I know it and my whole life can turn on a dime, on a mosquito bite.  It's terrifying if I think about it, so I try mightily not to think about it.  But the feeling creeps in, on a day when I'm thinking G-d is sitting up there somewhere deciding my fate for the next year and I've got so much I want to do.  I think about it when yet another celebrity has succumbed to this.  How did they die?  Cancer, what else.  I think about the natural conclusion to my story, and who will write it.  If I write a book, it will be the inevitable postscript.  Someone has to report it on my blog, it will be my final Facebook status update.  Some might feel relieved, the same way they feel relieved when they finish a book, regardless of how it ended. 

This is not my end, obviously.  It's just on my mind. And maybe I can eat, which would be a much better idea than sitting up here basking in my own morbidity.  So L'Shana Tova, let's eat.