Chemo cookies
You go to the store to buy ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. By the time you get into the grocery store, you are so exhausted that you want to crawl into a cart and take a nap. Instead you buy a package of those chocolate chip cookies that snap out and you just put them on a cookie sheet and bake them at 350 degrees for 11 minutes and you are done.
Easy.
The next day you get up and turn on the oven. So far, so good. You line the cookie sheet with parchment paper (extra points!) and put the cookies on there. You go to sit down and read while the oven heats up. You are deep in your book and hear a ding. You glance at your phone. Nothing. You shrug. Go back to your book. You are thirsty, get up to get a drink. Notice the cookie sheet of cookies sitting on the counter. Remember that you are baking cookies. You pop them in the oven and check the oven clock. 11 minutes...that means that the cookies will be done at 11:28. You make a mental note that this means around 11:30. You go back and sit down, remember that you are thirsty and get back up to get a drink.
You go into the office to check your email. You stop yourself. You have a strange tendency to go to YouTube and watch funny videos about stupid cheating boyfriends and smart dogs and cats. You tell yourself to go sit down and read so that you don't forget the cookies.
You remember that you need to write a thank you note to go along with the cookies that are baking. You grab your good cards and go into the kitchen and write the note. You have 4 minutes left. You decide to send off a quick Marco Polo to your niece because you owe her one. You do this. Afterwards, you feel really, really sleepy. You sit in the lounger and close your eyes.
What is that smell?
You jump up and check on the cookies which have now been in the oven for nearly 20 minutes. They are a little.....brown and crunchy, but not competely ruined. Just not as soft as you would like. You take them out and put the cookies on the newspaper laid out. You clean the cookie sheet and shut off the oven.
Go back to the lounger and fall asleep. Because this is you on chemo. You fall asleep constantly. You wake up 45 minutes later and go into the kitchen to take your midday meds. At first you are startled at all the cookies laid out to cool. And then you are pleasantly pleased.
Of course! I baked cookies this morning!
You take a nibble of one. It is crunchy, but a good crunchy. Like a little overdone, but not dangerously so. You pack up half of the cookies on one of your prettiest plates and put the rest up in the cookie jar that you hate but T loves. The one that looks like a man riding a very strange horse.
If T were here, she would say, "Honey, that would be called a tauntaun. Or you can call them snow lizards, if it is easier. They are from the snow plains of Hoth."
You wonder how you can remember this when you can't remember your sister's married name. This is the fun of chemo brain. But, you still will not call it a tauntaun. It is a ridiculous looking horse and you detest it but in every marriage you must pick your battles.
Just like, in football you insist on calling helmets, hats, and uniforms, costumes. This drives T just a little bit crazy but like you, she picks her battles.
It is time to go out and get some coffee. You will never forget that you like a venti half soy vanilla double shot gingerbread whipped cream upside down double blended.
Some things even chemo brain doesn't dare mess with....
Easy.
The next day you get up and turn on the oven. So far, so good. You line the cookie sheet with parchment paper (extra points!) and put the cookies on there. You go to sit down and read while the oven heats up. You are deep in your book and hear a ding. You glance at your phone. Nothing. You shrug. Go back to your book. You are thirsty, get up to get a drink. Notice the cookie sheet of cookies sitting on the counter. Remember that you are baking cookies. You pop them in the oven and check the oven clock. 11 minutes...that means that the cookies will be done at 11:28. You make a mental note that this means around 11:30. You go back and sit down, remember that you are thirsty and get back up to get a drink.
You go into the office to check your email. You stop yourself. You have a strange tendency to go to YouTube and watch funny videos about stupid cheating boyfriends and smart dogs and cats. You tell yourself to go sit down and read so that you don't forget the cookies.
You remember that you need to write a thank you note to go along with the cookies that are baking. You grab your good cards and go into the kitchen and write the note. You have 4 minutes left. You decide to send off a quick Marco Polo to your niece because you owe her one. You do this. Afterwards, you feel really, really sleepy. You sit in the lounger and close your eyes.
What is that smell?
You jump up and check on the cookies which have now been in the oven for nearly 20 minutes. They are a little.....brown and crunchy, but not competely ruined. Just not as soft as you would like. You take them out and put the cookies on the newspaper laid out. You clean the cookie sheet and shut off the oven.
Go back to the lounger and fall asleep. Because this is you on chemo. You fall asleep constantly. You wake up 45 minutes later and go into the kitchen to take your midday meds. At first you are startled at all the cookies laid out to cool. And then you are pleasantly pleased.
Of course! I baked cookies this morning!
You take a nibble of one. It is crunchy, but a good crunchy. Like a little overdone, but not dangerously so. You pack up half of the cookies on one of your prettiest plates and put the rest up in the cookie jar that you hate but T loves. The one that looks like a man riding a very strange horse.
If T were here, she would say, "Honey, that would be called a tauntaun. Or you can call them snow lizards, if it is easier. They are from the snow plains of Hoth."
You wonder how you can remember this when you can't remember your sister's married name. This is the fun of chemo brain. But, you still will not call it a tauntaun. It is a ridiculous looking horse and you detest it but in every marriage you must pick your battles.
Just like, in football you insist on calling helmets, hats, and uniforms, costumes. This drives T just a little bit crazy but like you, she picks her battles.
It is time to go out and get some coffee. You will never forget that you like a venti half soy vanilla double shot gingerbread whipped cream upside down double blended.
Some things even chemo brain doesn't dare mess with....
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