We are going to be in the hospital from Friday to Tuesday for chemo. On one hand, I'm not too happy about that, as chemo just plain sucks. It's hard on The Boy, and it's hard on us. It's just plain not fun.
On the other hand, it does make certain things easier. For instance, Saturday morning, I have a fighting chance of getting eight hours' worth of sleep. Not so simple with The Boy sharing space with us, you know? It'll also be easier to watch the Battlestar Galactica series finale on Friday night, and we'll use the boy out of the house to give the upstairs a thorough scrubbing. I'll also catch up on some schoolwork, which I haven't been able to do over the past three weeks.
I feel bad about putting most of the hospital stays on my mother-in-law and my wife, but it's somewhat unavoidable. This math degree - which, for the record, I am not going to finish when I suspected - takes up a lot of time, and it's nearly impossible to get work done at home with the baby at home. Combine that with the whole "job" thing, and life becomes that much more difficult.
I cry a bit about the restart of chemo. The Boy's made, like, seven or eight major milestones since the last hospital stay, and I'm sure that it's because he wasn't on chemotherapy. His eyelashes are back, his eyebrows are back, and he's grown some peachfuzz on top of his head. All that'll be gone by next week. He'll be back to feeling crappy, and we'll be back to giving him shots of nupagen.
Here we go. Nose to the grindstone again. Three months down, 21 months (plus any additional radiation treatments delaying things) to go.
Then a lifetime of paranoia.