How is it that I'm halfway through chemo and haven't written an update?

Probably because it knocks me on my hindquarters.

And makes me say weird things like, "Are these your footballs...I mean shoes?!" and "There are plates in the dryer...I mean dishwasher!"

I feel like a walking, talking Mad Lib most days.

So how's it going?

Well, it's going...to drive me bat crazy if these next 7 weeks don't zoom right on by. And if my last 4 treatments are anything like the first 4. Which they aren't supposed to be. BUT, again, nothing during this whole ordeal has been how it's "supposed to be" with me. How's that for a lovely upbeat attitude?

I guess let me paint the picture of the infusion room to set the stage. It has multiple pods of chairs. Which is basically 4 sections of recliners lined up on both sides facing each other. Maybe 10 per pod? I don't remember. I don't take that detailed of notes, people.

I walked in that first day and they said, "Pick a chair".

Slight panic set in. I do better when someone says, "Sit there". Takes the decision making off me. I'd wished I'd read up on Infusion Room Etiquette, if there's even such a thing.

There were plenty of chairs that morning. So should I find the farthest one from others? Do I sit down right next to someone and make a new friend? Do I greet people as I go by? Or curtsy as I make my way down the row? I decided just to give a slight smile to folks as I passed. Heck, we're all stuck in this room together for hours that none of us want to be in.

Then I saw it. My chair. In the corner. Back against the wall so I could see the whole room. Right next to the window overlooking the garden. With a spot for David next to it. Off I headed. As I sat down I realized there was a guy right across from me getting infused.

Shoot. This wasn't going to be awkward at all. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to now be sitting across from this newbie stranger for the morning. But I'd already committed to the chair so it would have been more awkward to get up and move.

As I settled in, I gazed around at the others in my pod. The fellow across from me I'd be avoiding eye contact with. An older man hooked up to meds with his wife next to him. Another white haired gentleman already asleep.

What the heck?! Had I inadvertently wandered into the man pod? I later learned that wasn't a thing. Just a coincidence that day.

I won't go into a play by play of chemo because that will just start to read like a medical journal and even my eyes will begin to glass over. I did get a wee bit curious though when the nurse wheeled over a huge cart of supplies, gowned up, and started creating a sterile field to access my port that first time. Even I have to wear a mask for that part. I started thinking, "Wait. What? Do they have me scheduled for a surgery right here and now I didn't know about? And am I scrubbing in for my own mini surgery?!"

I got two meds these first 4 rounds. Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Or "AC" for us BC experts. Yeah, I'm down with the breast cancer lingo now. We're a super hip club in case you didn't know. One I hope none of you ever have to join.

The Adriamycin, as I mentioned on FB, is known as the "red devil". And boy howdy, is it ever! I am SUPER thankful I didn't have terrible nausea with it. My home meds basically knocked me out for 4 days afterward to help avoid that. Hey, bring it on. I'll take that. I had to suck on a popsicle while it was getting infused to help prevent mouth sores. I felt like a 5 year old getting bribed to take their shot.

The "red devil" part for me was just when I started to come around and have a day or so of standing upright and safely being able to drive myself places, it would say, "Oh? Feeling better are we? Have plans to head on in to work today? Alrighty. I'm just gonna drop your white blood cell counts to almost nothing. And, what the heck, let's drop those red cell counts too. Nope, more. A little more. Eh, let's just go ahead and make you anemic and put you right on the edge of needing a blood transfusion. There. And just for grins, since I dropped those levels so low, let's raise your temp up. More. A little more. Yep, 103 sounds about right. I don't want to make you go unconscious or anything."

I was on 3 different antibiotics and needed IV fluids once. All during my weeks/weekends where I was supposed to be feeling good. Little devil for sure.

I've gotten pretty good at knowing when my counts are dropping. Walking out to the mailbox and feeling like I just ran a 5K usually tips me off.

When I had to page my oncologist this weekend for yet another fever, he said, "Ok, tell me where you are with your treatments because I'm just coming back from vacation."

"Well, I just finished my AC..."

"Oh thank God!" he interjected.

"I know! I am!"

The smell of the saline they use to flush my port has become my most hated smells of all smells. Oh. My. Word. I have to hold my breath and go to my happy place when they do that part. Why can't it come in different scents/flavors? Like tooth polish at the dentist? Bubblegum would for sure be my first pick.

The kids have been pretty understanding when I feel like crud in a bucket and they have to forego having sleepovers here. Drue texted me this weekend asking how I felt. When I said, "Not so great" she said, "Oh, ok. I was gonna ask if so-and-so could sleep over but we can do it another time."

She texted me a few hours later asking again how I was feeling.

"What do you mean??" I texted back wearily. We'd already been through this. There would be no sleepover. Turns out, she was just genuinely concerned that time and wanted to make sure my fever was gone. No ulterior motive whatsoever. Oopsie.

So that about sums it up. Probably more detail than you cared to know. If people see me out and ask about chemo, I usually say, "Oh, it's going pretty good. Not as terrible as I'd feared." Because I feel like I have to defend it since it's, quite frankly, saving my life at the moment.

For some reason, it has rained on each and every treatment day thus far. I'm sure there's a witty correlation to be made there but I'm sleepy so that will have to wait for another day.

My coveted window corner chair was occupied this last time. I texted David who hadn't made it in from the truck yet. He offered to get his tire tool and "rough somebody up" for me.

I will not be asking him to co-author the Infusion Room Etiquette Book I'll be writing.

I'm happy to report people have stopped looking at my chest to see if it's still mine. And have started looking at my hair to see if it's still mine.

Which, of course, it isn't. After having it come out in fistfuls and literally watching my highlights go down the drain, it was time.

A question I get asked frequently (understandably so) is, "How are the kids handling all this?"

The answer: Remarkably...Surprisingly...Oddly well. I'm not sure which adverb to pick exactly.

They still take their cues from us. Just like toddlers taking a tumble. Every parent knows not to gasp or suck in their breath. You say, in your best singsong voice, "Oopsie Daisie! Hop up!" They may look uncertain for a second, but when they see you're ok, they're ok. Same rule seems to have applied with my diagnosis and treatment.

Sure, there have been a few "Are you going to die?" discussions.

I put on a reassuring front and calm their fears. But also usually throw in, "Besides...there's no way I'm gonna miss out on tormenting you throughout your teen years. This is what I've trained for!"

I didn't want my head shaving to be a somber moment. But I didn't really expect the kids to get downright giddy about it. They were full of all sorts of crazy ideas so I just decided to humor them.

Reese called first dibs with the clippers.

Drue suggested I dye it a fun color right before we shaved it. And she wanted us to shave everything except my bangs to see what that would look like. Not a look I'll be repeating, that's for sure.

I was leery about the hair dye idea. But, really, what did I have to lose? All my hair! Naturally, we picked pink. So I bleached it and dyed it. All while more and more kept falling out around me.

We all gathered in the gazebo out back for my shearing. It seems like an eternity ago, but it's only been 3 weeks. And I still forget I'm bald most days until I pass a mirror. I envisioned myself looking like Demi Moore from G.I. Jane. And I guess I resemble her look a little, if part of her crew cut fell out in patches and she had random pink dye splotches on her scalp.

For insurance purposes my wig is a "cranial prosthesis". And my oncologist had to write a prescription for it. Which made me snicker.

We've actually had quite a few snickers over my lack of hair.

Each month I order two Target Beauty boxes for the girls and I to share. 6 out of 7 items in our last one were hair products. So the girls were pretty excited they each got a box all to themselves.

Drue straightened her hair one day last week when the humidity level was 112%. So she tried to finagle a ride to school so her curls wouldn't break through as soon as she stepped out the front door. When her request was denied she said, "Ugh! I'll just..." then trailed off and laughed guiltily. "You'll just what?" I pried curiously. "I was gonna say...cut it all off, " she confessed. Then promptly left for school without complaint.

I'm told my wig looks fairly similar to the haircut I got a few weeks before it all came out. Even the kids would ask before I lost my hair, "Wait, is that your wig?"

"Yep. I just left your room 5 minutes ago. But in that time, I shaved my entire head by myself in the bathroom and am now sporting my wig."

Cancer has taken many things from me. But not my snark.

I pull my wig off as soon as I get to my car after work, slap on my ball cap, and don't put it back on until I go back to work or church. I asked the kids if they wanted me to wear it to their school functions and they all said they didn't care. Tate was confused why I was asking. "Well, I thought you might want a Mom with hair to come to stuff, not your bald Mom in a baseball cap."

He still look confused and said, "I don't care. I mean, cancer is a good excuse to be bald."

Bless it.

The other day when I picked him up from practice after work I quickly said, "Oh! Don't sit on my hair," as he scrambled into the car. Felt super normal yet odd to say at the same time.

It was weird running errands for the first time with just my hat on. And running into people I know who aren't aware of this turn of events in my life is strange. "I look like a cancer patient," I lamented to David. "Well, Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you..." he replied.

My beauty routine has always left a lot to be desired. My makeup application takes about 4 minutes, I slap polish on my picked to nubs nails, and I usually check with the girls for their approval before buying any new articles of clothing. But it took me about 12 years to grow my hair out to the length it was, and I do kind of miss it.

But, hey, I am sporting that super cool scar on the back of my head I never thought I'd get to see.