WBC counts, that is. Which is just where they're supposed to be one week after treatment. As long as they're not zero, and they're not, I'll be just fine in a couple of days. I need to do what I did last round -- avoid germs, crowds, and sneezes for the next two days -- self-imposed quarantine. I dug out my falling-apart copy of Jane Eyre and plan to settle in for a cozy read.
If I can gather the energy, the dogs and I may all be sporting new dos by the end of the weekend. Angus just needs an ear trim, but Duncan needs an all-over shearing; he's looking like a little lambie. My onc nurse suggested it might be time for a haircut for me -- give the new growth a fresh palate to grow into (new growth isn't expected for a couple of months, but the hair I have isn't really worth hanging onto much longer). I've been looking forward to a bald head, but haven't taken the initiative to make it happen. I don't know what exactly I'm waiting for. I thought that one of my loved ones would raise the flag and say it's time. Nope, hasn't happened. I keep asking my dear husband if he's tired of looking at my funny head, but he says no. Yet another process that is taking its time, and I seem to be OK with that. I'll let you know when I get there.
I've got plans for Sunday -- a little trek north to the outlet mall with my darling daughter - she's got a new purchase in mind, and I'd like a little outing. Then back to the office on Monday for a couple of weeks of work until it's time for the *last* chemo treatment. hooray!
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