Nesting: No I'm not pregnant. I'm starting chemo.

Upon learning that I had to start chemotherapy due to a massive tumor taking up residence in my right breast, I launched into a frenzied nesting craze —the likes of which I’ve never seen before (after killing a solid 3-4 days weeping and watching Downton Abbey, obvi.)

It was like being pregnant all over again. In my mixed-up head, I was convinced that I needed to prepare for a total domestic collapse. For a future where I wouldn’t be able to lift a finger so I’d better scrub the hell outta these Pergo floors while I still have a spring in my step!

A week or so prior to chemo, I went mildly berserk in Target loading my cart with essentials: all-purpose cleaner, laundry soap, a 10-pack of tissues, toothbrushes, hand soap, Febreeze…and an eyebrow kit so I could look less like a freak scrubbing my toilet. Priorities.

Maybe, in part, my nesting craze was in response to the complete lack of preparation I had when my husband first went through chemo. (Yes. We both had cancer. At the same time. Like, really life?)

I had nothing sorted out. I thought (or didn’t think at all) that I’d push out this kid, and we’d go home to start our happily ever after. Not the rom-com version of “happily ever after” (I’m not that delusional.) But certainly not the version that features an entire kitchen cabinet relegated to anti-nausea pills.

That, I did not prepare for.

I didn’t have our kitchen stocked with white rice, saltines, and applesauce. I didn’t have that special mouthwash for receding gums. I wasn’t prepared for the depression, the exhaustion, the chemo farts (those are real!)

I never want to experience that unsettled chaos again. Not if I can help it. So I went into hyper-preparation mode. I organized sock drawers and stocked the pantry with broth and oatmeal. 

I prepped and sorted and scrubbed. I found time to watch YouTube tutorials on how to tie a head scarf. I went to the thrift store to pick up comfy sweats (more essential than cleaning products, in the end.)

I was ready for chemo. My uncluttered closets were ready for chemo.

Thankfully, for my husband’s sake, the more weeks of treatment I put behind me, the weaker my nesting impulse has become. You can find proof of this in a photo I snapped today (look closely, and you may be able to spot a toddler among the rubble.)

I'm almost on the other side now. One more Taxol infusion to go. As I switch gears from getting through chemo to preparing for surgery, I've entered a whole new phase of mania. Pray for Paul.

My surgery date is now officially less than one month away. I don't like that. The idea of a modified radical double mastectomy makes me woozy. Just the word: radical. It's fine when we're talking about political stances or '90s pop bands (New Radicals, anyone?) Not so much when we're talking about slicing into my body. 

So, I've been a bit prickly lately. I feel unsettled. Like there's nothing I can do to stop this terrible something from happening. It's unpleasant. 

And what do we do when things feel like they're spinning out of control? Based on my feverish patterns, we can:

a) Head to Target

b) Bleach our shower curtains 

c) Break out the Gin & Tonics OR,

d) Put our Rosaries to good use

(psst. You're supposed to pick choice D)

It's hard. VERY. But I try to live by this:

It's a toss-up, given my touch-and-go mental state these days. Pray, hope, and don't worry. It doesn't hurt to follow that mantra with a good stiff drink, too. It is G&T season, after all.