I was going to act like today was a normal day. I woke up, got the kids off to school, and went to Jazzercise. I left class when the rest of the class started floor work, because I’m still not able to get on and off the floor, and went into the locker room.
And burst into tears.
It was then that I realized that maybe I’m a little nervous about this afternoon. In a few hours, I’ll go see my liver doctor and have my annual hepatitis C test. Only this year is different. I finished my interferon treatment five years ago, and they treat hepatitis C like cancer. If you stay in remission for five years, they say you’re “cured.” I’ve tested negative each year so far, and have no reason to think this year will be any different. Still, the enormity of the occasion is overwhelming.
I cannot believe I’ve made it this far. It doesn’t seem long ago when the first shipment of needles pre-loaded with interferon were delivered to my door in a box, cooled with dry ice. The twins were just six months old when I started, and eighteen months old when my treatment ended.
After I finished, my doctor told me to wait a couple of months before exercising so my body could recover. Of course, I didn’t. I was desperate to “be normal” again. I immediately signed up for Jazzercise, and the Voice of Reason, afraid I’d collapse on the gym floor, insisted on coming along.
Five years later, we’re both still at it, step-ball-changing and grapevining enthusiastically.
Today, I plan to drink lots of water and Gatorade so my veins will be nice and juicy. I’ll have a little prayer time, then do my usual routine. I’ve got to pick out hardware for the new front door, pay bills, pick up carpool, take the duo to a birthday party, take Finn to football, and get the boys’ clothes washed so they can hunt little birdies with Bill this weekend and give me some much-needed solitude. Given that, I bet it will be hard to dwell on things too much.
But still, there’s no denying it’s not a normal day.