Sunday was just like any old Sunday. Well – not like the good old ones of a year or three ago – I didn’t run 50k before breakfast – in fact, for the foreseeable future, it’s safe to assume the zero place holder will stand alone there. But I did manage some other Sunday type things with a slow morning pottering around drinking coffee. The Sundayness of Sunday was significantly augmented when Ollie arrived armed with croissants and to help edit some writing and replace a string on my baritone ukulele.
As expected, the next day was Monday. But, as has now become the way of my life, that was another Sunday too. Those who have to get up on a Monday and trudge to work might see this as no bad thing. Once I’d gotten the daily poison tablets out of the way, the rest of the day was mine. Perhaps I could enjoy a nice walk in the local forest or find some cricket on TV. I could get some work done and tick off a few bits of life admin. But my chemo cycle had other ideas. I’d been told that I should expect high levels of fatigue around Monday and by midmorning, this proved to be correct and I was fast asleep. I did manage to escape the weariness a couple of times to eat, so I guess that’s something. Tuesday was an even lazier Sunday than Monday.
As I approach a month since the start of chemotherapy, it feels like every day has taken the form of some kind of Sunday. Plenty of rest and little to no obligation might sound lovely, but I’ve had enough of Sundays. Give me any other day – the purposeful energy of a working weekday or the satisfied freedom of a well earned Saturday. As a runner, the hardest part of training has always been rest day. Nothing to tick off or get done. No hit of endorphins to take the edge off the rest of life.
But today is Wednesday and, although it’s begun like yet another Sunday, the fatigue is apparently meant to relent. I don’t Quite know how yet, but I’m going try and turn this perpetual Sunday into some kind of Monday. Because conscientious achievement beats aimless lethargy any day of the week.