Phew! Thank God that's over

It's over. My last day of Interferon/Ribavirin therapy was last Thursday. Although I tried not to, I couldn't help expecting to feel better right away and I'm a bit disappointed that I don't. I can breathe a bit better, but so far that's the only change I'm able to detect, and the difference is not dramatic. I feel better, but I'm still wheezing. My friend Randi said she felt better right away, but I suspect that her memory has painted things in a rosier light than she saw them at the time. Also, her side effects were different. I know that I'll just have to wait for my hair to grow back, but I was hoping for some improvement in my hearing within the first few days, and because there's been no change at all I'm afraid the hearing loss is permanent. Probably, though, the improvement will happen so gradually that I won't notice it until suddenly I realize that I can hear at meetings again.

One other thing that's different is that I got my period this weekend, which might possibly be a coincidence, but somehow I doubt it. I haven't had a period since last August; it's been so long that I forgot what they were like. My trip to Rite Aid on the way home from the laundromat was fraught with pitfalls, as I navigated through the aisle of Easter candy on my way to the "feminine hygiene" section and passed by the cookie aisle during my search for trash bags. I'm afraid that I was unable to resist the chocolate -- I bought a bag of individually wrapped Dove chocolates, three quarters of which I consumed within an hour of getting home -- and I don't even like chocolate! I also bought a package of iced oatmeal-raisin cookies, although I'm proud to say that I haven't eaten quite so many of those. I plan to take them to work tomorrow and let my co-workers eat the rest. If they're not here, I won't eat them. Generally, in my infrequent forays into sweets-consumption, I'm a cookie-eater; I have a weakness for cookies of any variety, and especially oatmeal-raisin cookies, but chocolate leaves me cold, so it's surprising to me that I pounced so eagerly on the chocolates when I got home. I chalked it up to hormones and indulged my whim, hoping that this doesn't mean I won't be able to button my skinny jeans by next weekend.

I've been tired all weekend, perhaps because of my period, perhaps because I just finished fifty-four purgatorial weeks of Interferon/Ribavirin therapy and my body hasn't yet recovered. Whatever the cause, I didn't do much of anything beyond the usual cleaning, laundry and meetings. It's now Sunday evening and I'm only waiting until I've digested the chocolate somewhat before I crawl into bed. I feel dull and stupid, and when I found this morning that I dried up completely two paragraphs into a journal entry I allowed myself a sigh of self-pity. I'm tired of being stupid. My writing has gone to shit, my mind is dull, my memory is shot and I have the attention span of a three-year-old. I don't like it. I want my mind back. I want to be interesting again, and interested in more than music, fashion and boys. I want to be able to write a journal entry without trailing off in the middle, and I want to be able to go back and read it and be entertained. I'm like Charly, in Flowers for Algernon, only in the opposite direction.

In despair I texted my friend Jack, saying, "Please tell me I won't be stupid forever. My mind will come back someday, right?" He texted me back to say, "Even 'stupid' you are smarter than 95% of the drones. But it is going to take more than a few days for your body and mind to restore themselves." I don't know that I agree with the first part, but I needed to be reminded of the second. I'm too impatient. I want instant gratification. I want to be able to finish the NY Times crossword again. I let my subscription lapse last year because I'd lost interest in it. I wasn't even able to finish Thursday, much less Saturday, and I figured it would be a waste of money to renew this year. I also let my New Yorker subscription lapse, for the same reason, replacing it with a subscription to W Magazine, the first issue of which has yet to arrive. That last probably wasn't a great idea because of the stench. I subscribed to a year of Vanity Fair a few years ago and was unable to read a single issue because of the stink of the perfume ads. Taking it out of its plastic wrapper caused an instant, pounding headache. If W smells that bad it will go straight from the mailbox to the recycle bin, just like Vanity Fair, but I'm hoping for better things.

So, the titular year of Interferon is officially over. I've done what I set out to do in this blog, and I think I will probably leave it alone for awhile. I may come back and post an update here and there, to report on the abatement of the side effects and the results of whatever tests I have to have over the next six months, but it won't be every two to three weeks anymore. Not that anyone cares. Possibly, if I wait long enough, my next entry will be more interesting and entertaining.