Now I'm tired.

It's decision making time in CancerLand, and there aren't any roads that lead to the Peppermint Stick Forest or Gumdrop Mountain.

It's nearly 3:00 AM and I'm wide awake. I'm experiencing a high level of discomfort, with pain radiating through my chest, rib cage, and mid to lower back. I can't lie down, and I can't sit upright. I'm taking shallow breathes on accounta it hurts too much to fill my lungs with air. I'm trying to relax. Being upset just makes my breathing worse.

That's an awfully kvetchy-sounding paragraph, but honestly I'm just reporting.

I'm in the recliner in the guest room, with the light on... waiting for the drugs to kick in, wondering how I'm going to be able to function at work in just a few hours. The true love of my life is sleeping in the bed next to this chair. He joined me here during the night... said he didn't want to be as far away from me as our bedroom. I feel bad that he's sleeping in a less comfy bed with a light on, but I'm selfishly glad he's here.

I had my infusion today, but I didn't have any shots. No giant needle in my abdomen, or narrow needles in my hips. I have failed that treatment -- you know, the one that was relatively easy, only once a month, and held the key to long term (several years) survival.

On Monday I'm having a port-a-cath inserted into my upper chest wall. It's minor surgery, and it will mean an end to the stressful search for a "good" vein. It's a metal disk, about the size of a quarter but thicker, that'll live under my skin as a "plug" for IV's and needles. It sounds weird and science fiction-y to me, but glad to be getting it.

On Tuesday I start chemotherapy. It wasn't an easy decision, and until Thursday norning I was still undecided. Bottom line is that liver mets aren't good. They can ramp up quickly and kill you fast.

I absolutely believe that there are worse things than dying, and that it's inevitable, anyway. There's a delicate balance here, and I want to pay attention to it, and do what I can reasonably do to live, without feeling worse from chemo than I do from cancer.

I have no interest in eeking out every last moment I can on this earth.

But starting Tuesday I'm going to try this, and hope for the best.

I'll be taking two drugs, Taxol and Avastin. I will receive treatment once a week for three weeks, and then have one week off. That is called one cycle. I will continue to do cycles of chemo until it stops working (or it's decided it never starated working), or I can no longer tolerate it (or choose not to tolerate it).

I'll lose all of my hair, and as long as I'm taking Taxol it won't grow back. I have very different feelings about this than I did the first time I lost my hair. It was a small matter to me, then. But then I knew there to be a reasonable chance that I could live to be old and grey with Eric. Now I know that I'm going to die -- too soon -- and probably without hair. It doesn't make me happy.

So, I'll be bald. There's not much nausea associated with this regimen. I'll likely have flu-like symptoms, bone pain, joint pin, and possibly neuropathy (pain or numbeness in hand and feet).

I don't if it'll work, or how I'm going to feel, or when or if I'll be able to work.

And that's my icky story in a brightly lit room at 3:30 in the morning.