Black Steroid Days

We went to a wonderful Roger Waters’ (Pink Floyd) concert. I was able to sit through the whole concert fine, but when it finished the crowd was taking much too long to filter out. I was standing in a row of chairs behind hundreds of people. My whole body was shaking because I couldn’t move forward. I had to get out of there immediately. Finally I hopped the row of chairs. Luckily Alex followed me but I wouldn’t have cared if he didn’t. But then we ran into the crowd trying to get out the stadium door. Not only was I ready to climb the walls or yell “fire!” I had a sudden angst that I was standing in a pestilent swamp of germs. These people were in my way and were going to infect me at the same time. When I finally squeezed through the door, the paranoia followed me outside. I was horribly anxious waiting for the city Link bus. As soon as I sat down I felt the germs of the person who had occupied the bus seat before me seeping across my body. I forgot my hand sanitizer so I couldn’t touch anything. I could only sit with my hands on my lap and hope it would be a quick journey. At home I showered and threw my clothes in the laundry.

      Friday January 13^th  was quite appropriately, another black steroid day.  In the evening news there was a story about a group of sailors (four men including Sir Peter Blake’s son James Blake) who left Sydney in November 2011 and spent 48 days rowing to New Zealand. They were due to be in Cape Reinga at the very top of New Zealand the next day then head to Auckland.

      “Who gives a shit? Who cares if somebody rows from Sydney to Auckland? Take a plane! If they got into trouble we’d have to rescue them! What’s the point?” I pontificated ridiculously loud.

      A moment of stunned silence was followed by eye-watering laughter from Charlotte. Her sweet laughter broke me from my rant but not my opinion. I was honestly angry with these men for undergoing such a stupid stunt. It could have gotten them or their potential rescuers killed. Life was too precious to squander it. Later I could see that I was being crazy but on that day I felt that the rowing trip was like a slap in the face to everyone like me who was just trying to stay alive. Base jumpers became my biggest peeve. Perfectly healthy young people jumping off of cliffs pretending they were birds. Why couldn’t they be the ones with plasma cell leukemia? They were trying to kill themselves anyway.

      The days after steroid use would go from a sort of withdrawal mode to absolute exhaustion. Steroid Friday was the worst day. On Saturday I still couldn’t sit still. I had the dry-mouth, nervous, morning after a lot of late night espressos type of feeling. I would have a racing heart, be sweating and not want to be around many people.  On Sunday I was slung into a bit of a depression. I didn’t feel like going anywhere. I was grey and unmovable. Sometimes I didn’t feel like getting out of my pajamas and spent the day watching TV. Monday was sort of limbo-ish. I got dressed but didn’t really do much. Tuesday and Wednesday were great days. I wasn’t wired or tired. I only had to take a minimum of pills and they didn’t affect me much. Thursday it started all over again.  The days I felt really well were days to be cherished. I would talk myself out of any little ailments that might bring me down and try to just enjoy feeling “normal”.