Cindy is right, of course. The few remaining bumps before I'm out of the hospital are minor. With an across-the-board increase in my blood counts, the chemotherapy has pretty much worked it's way out of my system. The fevers have vanished, which also means I'm not taking nearly as many meds throughout the day.
My appetite has finally returned, too. I'm surprised to find that I'm actually hungry again, that I'm thinking about getting some food into my system. It starts off with baby steps. I've been down this road before, tricked by drugs into believing that I'm ready to eat solid foods only to dash off to my bathroom. So I stick to the basics, steer towards the bland. The hospital continues to bring me three mostly square meals a day; I'll pick at the lightly toasted white bread, the saltine crackers, maybe nibbling at tiny cut up carrots or rubbery celery.
I'm trying to get more exercise during these days of rapid improvement, taking walks on my own through the deeper reaches of the hospital. Wheeling my "little buddy" into the middle of my cold floor, struggling to eke out a handful of sit-ups, or a single wobbly-armed push-up.
I'll visit the cafeteria once a day or so, rooting through the vending machines. Potato chips, Kit Kats, even the occassional can of Coke. It's all good. I can actually taste it, and everything stays down.
But now I'm ready for some real food.
Dad and Jane are back in town again, staying with Shelby. They want to bring a celebratory dinner -- remission for sure, plus blood counts, plus I've stopped losing weight, plus the light at the end of the tunnel, all of that -- and they ask what I'd like to eat. Anything. The sky's the limit. Any restaurant, any recipe, any stacked-with-toppings pizza from the swankiest joints in town.
For me, it has to be Hot Dish, easily my favorite family recipe growing up. One of my all-time favorite meals, period.
