Wednesday afternoon on the way to pick up Theo from Hanthorn, I felt a catch in my throat and told myself not to get sick, I couldn’t possibly be getting sick, not with Chuda, the oncologist, on Thursday, and the promise of treatments so close at hand. That night I ran a fever beneath a sweaty mountain of blankets, battling hot and cold, all night long. Yesterday I stayed in bed, emerging only for meals, and woke up this morning feeling halfway all right.
Obviously my chemo-compromised immune system is no match for Hanthorn. It’s Daddy versus Hanthorn and Hanthorn’s winning. This isn’t even my first time down since Theo started this fall. I lost a week in there somewhere … not sure which. Another facet to the situation—the steroids that were interfering with my nights—I dropped them Wednesday. Sleep loss in an endless flow of runny noses and a scarcity of Kleenex boxes is like a leak in the boat I’m paddling, on a river of runny noses.
It’s the tail end of naptime, Omi already beginning to stir and grunt herself awake. Teacher’s Training Day. Theo home and I just had to lay myself on the rug in his bedroom to quiet down the little guy with his Scotch tape magnet-tiling a trailer on the tow truck project. What happened in there is still hard to put into words. I think I had a dream. I was having a seizure. I was propped up in bed, punching myself repeatedly in the face. Obviously I wasn’t in bed. I probably wasn’t hitting myself. Whether in the dream or on the green rug in Theo’s room, though, I could not move—I was paralyzed—as if I were having a seizure.