Battle starts tomorrow. I know, now, a little of what those soldiers of old must have felt. Lying in their tents, the day before the battle. Hearing the creak of guns, the neigh of horses, the excited chatter of men who, tired of lassitude, strain for action, for glory, for running free at the enemy.
Tomorrow, my fight starts again. Tomorrow, I go, once more, to the sixth floor where my body is pumped full of poison. I am ready, but not as exhilarated as I was the first time. The first time, I was longing to start fighting this awful pestilence. Now, I am more resigned. I realise that this is going to be a long battle and that I am going to need my strength the whole way along. I am not good at that. I am superb at being inspirational for 5 seconds, brilliant for a flash of time, but the tedious monotony that is at the heart of having cancer is the thing, I believe, the hardest thing about having the whole, dratted disease. It is constant, constant battering at one's self esteem, at one's energy levels and at one's mind. I have hair everywhere, on my pillows, on the floor, on the books that I mark, on my keyboard, on my shoulders as an ever present reminder. My tiredness at the end of the day heavies my legs, drags my arms and slows my mind.
All I must remember is that it isn't the chemo that is doing this to me, it is the cancer.
And I must find my sick bowl ready for tomorrow....