It's a sad state of affairs when not barfing was my biggest birthday wish. The cumulative effects of chemo meant that even though my birthday was a full week after dose number five, I was still bedridden with nausea and pain on the big day. I'm told that quite a few people called with either good wishes or sales pitches, but I wasn't in any condition to talk to anybody coherently. If you called and I failed to reply in some manner, blame my secretaries. Oh, and I sincerely apologize and all that.

At some point in the late afternoon, it was strongly suggested that I take a bath and put on fresh pajamas. Mom even tried to bribe me with a present that she wouldn't take upstairs. But after a particularly hellish morning, I really didn't want to move. Eventually, I was quasi-voluntarily cleaned, for values of clean not involving soap because it was heavy and I didn't care. And in case that wasn't tiring enough, next came a partially-controlled fall down the stairs with Matt providing support. I swear we are moving into a ranch when this is over. There are too many damn stairs around here.

Once situated on the couch, I declared myself to be inert for the rest of the week. This didn't get me off the hook completely, and I was handed the phone to talk to Dad. He wished me a happy birthday and asked how I was doing. My drug-filled brain probably responded in a fairly indicative manner. He asked if my maid of honor (she really needs a nickname...) was over, which just confused me. Had fewer narcotics been involved, this may have been quite a clue, but alas.

I was dragged into the dining room for a nice birthday dinner, despite my protests. Mom made something out of pieces of cow. Presumably it was good, as I managed to eat three bites. I did not, however, possess the strength to cut the meat on my accord, so Mom had to do it. She also did the plane coming in for a landing routine that is normally reserved for three year olds, which was okay with me as it meant I didn't have to exert effort to lift the heavy fork.

After taking some time to recover from dinner, I requested that cake be served at the couch. Mom said it wasn't time yet. Oh. How about now? Soon. Uh, okay. Back to cartoons. Then she suddenly decided it was cake time. Except she didn't have any party hats, so I needed to put the brown fluffy hat on. Shrug, made sense to me.

Instead of promptly receiving cake, the doorbell rang and in walked my maid of honor! That explains quite a few things that under normal circumstances I would have put together instead of being confused and forgetting them. Upon saying this aloud, Mom made a note to call Dad and beat him over the head for ruining the surprise. When I pointed out that even with his painfully obvious clue I still had no idea, she decided against aggravated assault, at least until she got home.

Now that everyone was present, I finally got to eat my cake. My useless chemo-riddled taste buds declared the plain yellow cake to taste like funnel cake, but at least that falls in the edible category.

After talking for awhile, my maid of honor had to depart. I was out of energy, and she needed to go home for whatever reason that I cannot remember. I truly appreciated her visit, which provided this shut-in with a much needed pick-me-up.