One week out from the port removal procedure, and things seem to be healing just fine. I had a good cry last week after I had it done. I don’t know if it was left over from the sedative they give you, but that whole next day I was a bundle of tears. First I cried because I couldn’t believe the chemo was over. Then I cried because the radiation was done. I cried because for the most part, the heavy stuff is over with, and it’s all recovery from here (which we know is heavy stuff all on its own). I cried over Ken’s procedure, and volunteered to have my own baby making equipment put out of commission. I told him I would do it because I was used to it. He just laughed, of course. And of course he was fine on Friday, and every day afterwards.
This morning he’s picking up the school auction catalogue and taking the kid to school. I’m home looking for socks to wash, which is a treasure hunt/obstacle course, as Ken hides them from me. Not really, but I’m not kidding, it’s like an Easter egg hunt looking for peoples socks in this house. Especially if they’re dirty, and the wearer is out of clean socks.
So I’ve been looking for his dirty socks to wash, as I have no idea how long he’s been running without a clean pair – he doesn’t tell me, he just finds a pair of not-too-dirty socks and wears those. He mentioned he took his shoes off at the doctors office on Friday, and put them right back on again, because his socks were not clean. I felt bad about that, sending him out the door with dirty socks. He works hard, and has been running around like a crazy person for weeks chasing down content for that auction catalogue. The least I could do is keep him in clean socks and underwear, right?
Which is why I’m poking around here this morning, on a mission to find socks. I found a few, and I’m not sure they all match one another, but into the wash they go. He’s got a big day today, and the man deserves clean socks to wear why he goes out to conquer the world.
But now I’m exhausted from hobbling around here, and all of the stooping over, and looking in hampers and under dirty clothes on the floor. And it’s not even 9am.