patterns

This morning I woke up at 5:30, some combination of fierce thirst, and urgent need to pee, and powerful wind whipping around the house, knocking at the windows and shoving the doors. I often wake at least once in the night to guzzle a large glass of water and use the bathroom -things a nurse recently told me are healthy habits, all that drinking and flushing prevents this toxic medication from taking up in my kidneys for too long, corroding them. I managed to get back to sleep after entertaining notions of drinking tea and watching a pleasant sunrise, which turned out to be just a brightening of the dark gray sky, the sun rising in some indistinct place behind all these clouds. It is a gloomy morning.
Despite what my long absence from the blog may indicate, chemo isn't so bad. It follows a pattern:
Day 1 (Treatment day): fatigue, mild nausea
Day 2: less fatigue and nausea than day 1
Days 3 & 4: extreme fatigue, persistent but pretty mild nausea
Day 5: mostly normal
Today is day 4 in this most recent cycle, and true to the pattern I went to bed at 8:30 last night after having taken an afternoon nap and slept in until 10am. Past day four the fatigue sticks around in a gentle way, urging me to bed early, sapping energy I might have for Christmas projects, shopping, or sewing. Still, I manage to keep my routines and obligations. I work on my normal days, concealing my baldness beneath a wig that makes me feel nervous, like I might be found out at any moment for this hair charade.
Monday evenings I volunteer with the local youth advisory council, though it seems almost dishonest to call myself a volunteer. I do so little, and I suspect I am the one who gets the most out of my participation. I hope in the very least that I'm offering them something in our discussions. The kids are in high school, tactful, timid, and supportive in their rare inquiries about my cancer. Except for one student. He has autism and I appreciate his interest the most. Without fail when I see him, we have the same brief conversation that makes some of the other kids uneasy, their manners dictating that one ought not discuss "it" too loudly or casually, despite my openness.
He asks LOUDLY, in a jubilant manner that makes me smile every time, "So, Sara, how is your battle with breast cancer going?"
"Well, _______, I think I'm winning," 
"Yessss! That's great news!"
Then, as if on cue, the other students smile, too. Because it is great news.