The Sloppy Joe fiasco
It was a lovely day yesterday. T spent almost the whole time outside. She mowed both the front and back yards, cleaned out the gutters, and planted flowers. Then, she came in, showered and we went grocery shopping. Actually, she does the shopping; I wait in the car. Sometimes, I try to come in for a while, but even if I hold the cart, I start to get sick and dizzy after about three aisles. No stamina.
When we got home, we both plopped on the sofa.
T: Hey, I bought a pound of ground beef to make sloppy joes for dinner but now I just don't feel like doing even simple cooking. Would you mind if we made it a sandwich night?
I was fine with that, even preferred it. I have been really nauseated lately from the antibiotics that I am on for a kidney infection. I have been in the position of having to force myself to eat because while antibiotics make me want to puke, if I take them on an empty stomach, I will puke. I had not been looking forward to the thought of cooking meat, but felt it was the least I could do. She worked so hard. So, I had cheese crackers. She had cold cereal. It was perfect. And the antibiotics stayed down.
SO, I woke up in the middle of the night last night and listened to T's deep breathing. I thought that it was such a shame that I wasn't more of a help. We used to share chores. Now, she does pretty much everything.
And then it came to me: I will make the sloppy joes tomorrow while she is at school! It seemed the good idea. I mean, how hard it is to make sloppy joes? You brown the beef, chop tomatoes, onions, and herbs, add tomato paste and that little envelope of sloppy joe seasoning and voila! done.
Well, dudes, I tried. I succeeded, too. But, I am so exhausted and sick that I can barely type.
I got out the meat. I averted my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth because, as most cancer fighters will tell you, the smell of raw meat is almost as bad as meat cooking. I plopped it into the pan and put it on low on the stove. I got out my wooden spoon and began to scrape off the meat from side to side as it browned. Was it me or did the spoon feel as if it weighed ten pounds? Halfway through, my arm was giving out, aching fiercely. My arthritic hand could only just barely keep a hold of the wooden spoon.
It was a headache, but I did it. Afterwards, I sat panting in a kitchen chair as if I had just run a mile. I put my head in my hands.
Welcome to the new you!
I wearily got up and realized that now I had to drain the meat. This used to be easy enough. You put a can in the sink. You hold the pan over the sink with a lid over it and leave just a tiny bit of room for the grease to drain into the can. You tip the pan to the side......
....and good hell, that was so hard. I could barely hold on to the pan. The lid seemed to not want to stay put. Again, I did it....but it exhausted me. By this time, I was fairly certain that I would not ever be able to eat a sloppy joe. The smell alone was making me get that urpy feeling.
I carried on. Chopped onions. Chopped tomatoes. Chopped basil, chives, and thyme. Added the tomato paste. The seasoning envelope.
Then, I went and sat in my living room chair and bawled like a baby. My arm felt as if I had been lifting weights for hours. My hands were shaking. My stomach was roiling. I was so cold that my teeth were chattering, for some odd reason.
So, I cried. A good long cry. A this terrible thing is happening to me and I am losing pieces of myself that I used to take for granted and now I will never get back cry. It is a time that only cancer fighters understand. You feel so incredibly alone and lonely. So scared. Sometimes angry. But, mostly just.....by yourself.
So, the pan is soaking in the sink. I will tackle it before T gets home from school. She will smile and scold me for "working." She will want to have sloppy joes for dinner and I will say that I think I will just stick to yogurt tonight. This will prompt her to start pushing the protein drinks on me all night.
Eventually, it will be time for bed and I will sink into those soft maroon bamboo sheets and feel as Anais Nin once put it:
I am restless.
Things are calling
me away.
My hair is being pulled
by the stars again.
And I will drift away....
When we got home, we both plopped on the sofa.
T: Hey, I bought a pound of ground beef to make sloppy joes for dinner but now I just don't feel like doing even simple cooking. Would you mind if we made it a sandwich night?
I was fine with that, even preferred it. I have been really nauseated lately from the antibiotics that I am on for a kidney infection. I have been in the position of having to force myself to eat because while antibiotics make me want to puke, if I take them on an empty stomach, I will puke. I had not been looking forward to the thought of cooking meat, but felt it was the least I could do. She worked so hard. So, I had cheese crackers. She had cold cereal. It was perfect. And the antibiotics stayed down.
SO, I woke up in the middle of the night last night and listened to T's deep breathing. I thought that it was such a shame that I wasn't more of a help. We used to share chores. Now, she does pretty much everything.
And then it came to me: I will make the sloppy joes tomorrow while she is at school! It seemed the good idea. I mean, how hard it is to make sloppy joes? You brown the beef, chop tomatoes, onions, and herbs, add tomato paste and that little envelope of sloppy joe seasoning and voila! done.
Well, dudes, I tried. I succeeded, too. But, I am so exhausted and sick that I can barely type.
I got out the meat. I averted my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth because, as most cancer fighters will tell you, the smell of raw meat is almost as bad as meat cooking. I plopped it into the pan and put it on low on the stove. I got out my wooden spoon and began to scrape off the meat from side to side as it browned. Was it me or did the spoon feel as if it weighed ten pounds? Halfway through, my arm was giving out, aching fiercely. My arthritic hand could only just barely keep a hold of the wooden spoon.
It was a headache, but I did it. Afterwards, I sat panting in a kitchen chair as if I had just run a mile. I put my head in my hands.
Welcome to the new you!
I wearily got up and realized that now I had to drain the meat. This used to be easy enough. You put a can in the sink. You hold the pan over the sink with a lid over it and leave just a tiny bit of room for the grease to drain into the can. You tip the pan to the side......
....and good hell, that was so hard. I could barely hold on to the pan. The lid seemed to not want to stay put. Again, I did it....but it exhausted me. By this time, I was fairly certain that I would not ever be able to eat a sloppy joe. The smell alone was making me get that urpy feeling.
I carried on. Chopped onions. Chopped tomatoes. Chopped basil, chives, and thyme. Added the tomato paste. The seasoning envelope.
Then, I went and sat in my living room chair and bawled like a baby. My arm felt as if I had been lifting weights for hours. My hands were shaking. My stomach was roiling. I was so cold that my teeth were chattering, for some odd reason.
So, I cried. A good long cry. A this terrible thing is happening to me and I am losing pieces of myself that I used to take for granted and now I will never get back cry. It is a time that only cancer fighters understand. You feel so incredibly alone and lonely. So scared. Sometimes angry. But, mostly just.....by yourself.
So, the pan is soaking in the sink. I will tackle it before T gets home from school. She will smile and scold me for "working." She will want to have sloppy joes for dinner and I will say that I think I will just stick to yogurt tonight. This will prompt her to start pushing the protein drinks on me all night.
Eventually, it will be time for bed and I will sink into those soft maroon bamboo sheets and feel as Anais Nin once put it:
I am restless.
Things are calling
me away.
My hair is being pulled
by the stars again.
And I will drift away....
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