Clean House Shirley Style!!!!

I am starting my third week of just bone weary, flat out T*I*R*E*D.  Like, don't roll over in bed because that causes a little bit more exertion than you may have cell energy stored up to accomplish.  Some days, my eyeballs have calculated how much energy it would take to look the opposite direction, or even open up and chose to just stay shut.

On Monday, I was laying down on a bed for half an hour after I carried up one little load of laundry trying to pack and get ready to leave Tuesday for my port placement.  My body just says:  "Karen, the cells are empty.  There is no fill up.  Just lay down."

I blame it all on that nasty, horrid Carbo blast they gave me over two weeks ago.  You put that stuff into your body, and the fight at the OK Coral suddenly seems serene in comparison.  It's like the early vikings raiding whole towns and leaving nothing but ashes.  It feels like someone opened up every appendage in your body and just poured in concrete, and you are left to process it and get it out best you can.

My blood especially hates it, and I can feel it fight for its very life - it tries to pull out every stop it can to do war with it, but it cannot. 

As I feel the Carbo move through my body, I am pretty sure my intestinal track below puts up all kinds of alarms realizing what is marching its way, and in sheer fear and some wild west bravado says "that stuff ain't movin' through our territory" - like the Idaho militia or something.

But it has to move on through and it feels like razor blades and sewing needles were thrown in with the concrete, just for fun. 

I don't' see well.  I don't hear well.  My voice sounds different even.  I think it checks every nook and cranny and just throws a few grenades here, some there, and you are left with nothing but repairing the damage.

I'm pretty sure there is a video game named after it.   

Plus, my appetite just packed up and left after the last carbo treatment.  I mean, it just wasn't there.  I ate because I knew I needed to and had to, but as soon as I hit that 1,000 calorie mark each day - I was done.  Looking at my water bottle even turned my stomach. 

So I am in this state of disrepair, and Scott, God bless him, has done as much as he can, but our standard of cleanliness has taken a little bit of a hit the last couple of months. 

I could not and am not supposed to clean bathrooms - because you know they keep stressing the two words I am coming to loathe more than sanding dry wall seams - "germ-free".  I am not supposed to dust.  When Scott runs the vacuum, I have to lock myself into a room for an hour until the dust settles again.


And to be honest, I like a clean house.  I am not too obsessive about it, but I like looking at gleaming wood.  I like looking out shiny windows.  I like things being put away where they are supposed to be kept.  But when the dust started piling up a bit because Scott just cannot do it all, I really did not have the energy to care too much about it.

So we packed up and left Tuesday morning, and didn't leave the house in such good shape.  And it really doesn't matter so much anymore - with our new motto of (see my lip curl here) "germ-free" living, there are not too many visitors coming our way at present.  And anyways - in my low energy state - if I get my stuff together and packed I consider it a successful morning, let alone what the house looks like.

On our way down to Columbus, out of the blue, Shirley Kerr calls me and tells me she needs my house key for tomorrow because she hired someone to come clean our house Wednesday.

I gasped - there was no turning around and missing my all important Super-Port-Placement appointment - and I knew what the house looked like.  

I told her I loved her for doing that, but we were not going to be home until late Wednesday and couldn't drop off the key; then my brain went into hyper-overdrive thinking about ways I could maybe at least change the day to give me a chance to do a "spit-shine" so it would not be so embarrassing.  

Shirley said she would call Scott later and work it out, but they would be there Wednesday.  When Shirley is doing business, you don't mess up the plans.  She's been pretty successful in her life and knows when to do things to get them done.

When I hung up the phone and told Scott, he smiled.  The relief was pretty obvious on him, but I told him I was going to be so embarrassed.  He turned to me and said "let Shirley do this for you".  I thought about it a few minutes.  Then he said, "maybe she hired someone you don't even know, so there won't be any need for embarrassment." 

I was warming up to the idea, but was also hoping desperately I did not leave my dirty clothes on the floor in my bathroom.  But I know I did.  


After a miserable couple of days, starting with the port placement on Tuesday which  probably should not have been done when we saw the low blood results on Wednesday; my blood tanking most severely resulting in a two-bag blood transfusion; the disappointment of falling further behind in my chemo schedule; being told once more that I absolutely cannot be around germs - not to even go outside without a mask on; my fear of giving this cancer a "bye" in this tournament and its strengthening up as much as I might hopefully this next week -- it all just hit pretty hard. 

So as Scott hauls my devastated butt home late Wednesday, we had not even thought about the "cleaners" that day.  We walked in the door - and finally smiled.  Our picture frames had been dusted.  Our windows washed.  Our dining room was straightened and dusted.  Our bathrooms were germ free and clean.  Like you could eat in the shower if you were so inclined.  They even scrubbed our microwave.

All if of it done, and all we had to do was crawl into bed.  It.was.wonderful.

Thank you Shirley Kerr.  You are a dear friend.