Lobster Meditation

In an astonishing new development, I am writing the day OF chemo as opposed to the morning after, because I have a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow I might feel like poot. Why? Because I kind of feel like poot right now. Wee bit naus at the moment. (When I say "wee bit" I really mean I've had a seltzer can to my lips since about five this evening, and when my mom and brother were making baked clams I had to barricade the door to the room I was napping in and sleep with a stuffed animal over my nose, even though I was a full staircase away in the opposite corner of the house.)

BUT I'm not writing to tell you about my tummy troubles. I am writing to detail my new detox procedure for the days following chemo.

My first treatment was memorial day weekend, right, which turned out to be the first really glorious weekend of the summer. So everyone's outside, getting sunburnt because they forget about the fact that you need a base tan, people, you just do, which you achieve with sunblock. But I spent that weekend in my bed, waking up only long enough to occasionally stumble into the bathroom and knock my hipbone on the sink and blind myself with the fluorescent lighting in my journey to pee. But because it was so nice out, I decided to open the window next to my bed and look out at the sun (and curse my young neighbors for...laughing and I guess being innocent children, basically). Next thing I know, I wake up DRENCHED in sweat. But the cold sweat that I actually used to experience as a symptom of the Hodge before I began treatment. And, ok, I try not to go into the overly gross details on here--because I am aware there is a fine line between "haha" and "haaaa...ehh...ew."--but the sweat smelled like the chemo drugs that got pumped into my system the day before. And take it from me, it's supes dupes unpleasant.

So when the second treatment began creeping up on me, I visited--where else!--the interwebz, and found out that soaking in Epsom salts in a hot bath for 20 minutes can help to draw out the toxins. And guess what, it DOES, and I'd like to share with you the specific way that I get down:

Lobster Meditation, y'all:

Step One: Walk in the dark through your parents' bedroom to get to their jacuzzi*1 with your laptop. Make sure you don't hit into the closet door, which is more often than not left ajar. Almost drop the laptop when your dad talks in his sleep unexpectedly.

Step Two: Put the laptop down somewhere that is NOT NEAR THE TUB. Turn the hot water knob on all the way. Feel it after five minutes. Burn your fingers. Turn the cold tap on a teeny bit.

Step Three: Wait for the tub to fill. Open iTunes and decide on some soothing tunes to play. Decide Joanna Newsom is soooo last spring, and remember you have the new Bon Iver album to get into.

Step Four: Have a seat on the toilet. Is the water even rising?

Step Five: Check the water temp to make sure it is as close to burning your skin off as possible, but also that it doesn't actually burn your skin off.

Step Six: Add a ton of Epsom Salt*2. Like four cups. Pretend a palmful is a cup.

Step Seven: (This is the tough part, because for an activity that is essentially staying still, it requires quite a bit of stamina.) Ease yourself into the water slowly. Realize it may be just a bit too hot. Tell yourself the hot water feels "soothing." Lower yourself down until you have covered as much of your body as you can in the water, and...stay there. (Eventually the water actually should feel soothing. If not, stop listening to me and ADD SOME COLD. I won't be held responsible for any burns.) Your face will begin to heat up, and beads of sweat should soon be comin' around the mountain. Evoke the spirit of the lobster just before it boils to death.

Step Seven: After you've vowed never to eat lobster, like, ever, it's time to meditate. Think back to sophomore year of high school, when you took a gym class called "movement and exploration," and your teacher made you do lay-down meditation on the wrestling mats in the basement. Take nice, big, deep breaths, in and out. Be thankful you do not smell the mats. You should be perspiring quite nicely now. With each breath out, imagine the chemo drugs seeping through your skin and out of your body, where they like to sit and plan how to make you feel sad. Realize your mind has wandered to last night's episode of So You Think You Can Dance and that you were wishing you knew how to work the DVR better. Go back to concentrating on the breathing.

So you essentially do that for as long as you can humanely stand the heat and humidity, or you feel you've made some progress (even if it's only mental) in detoxifying your system. Make sure you moisturize like you're paid to do it when you get out, but first I like to take a nice gritty face scrub and really work it in, since your pores are so open you can basically see your brain. Your face will feel like a baby's bottom, specifically this baby's:

Just kidding, it's more like this baby's:

You really will feel as good as that baby looks, on my honor as a blogger.

Uhm, I guess these are footnotes:

*1 If you have a standard size tub, don't fret. This can still be accomplished by bringing a 711 big gulp with you into the bath and pouring it over the parts of your body that can't be completely submerged like when you were five and no one made a more perfect mermaid than you did.

*2 That is, if your brother didn't use the last of it as a soak to ease his pain after his appendix was removed, that SELFISH JERK.

I just texted Jenna to read about Lobster Mediation tomorrow:

Me: I'm writing now about my special new detox move. lobster mediation

J: Red Lobster meditation? Jaykay

M: You just made me vurp.

J: I made you burp?

M: No, vurp. As in vomit in one's mouth. i'm naus and the words Red Lobster is like syrup of ipecac right now.

J: Ooooooof. One thousand pardons.

I'll give you like, 850.