Being late

I hate being late.  I hate it when other people are late.  Maybe it is an obsession or maybe it is the 12 years of Catholic education and great teachers like Joe Kroh who taught the value of honoring commitments.   Stephanie will tell you too many stories about how I obsess about being on time to parties.  "Gregory (the name she only uses when she is upset with me) it is a party; why the do you want to be on time?" She says with a deeply annoyed and aggravated tone.  I am the guy who actually shows up at 5:30 when the invite says the party starts at 5:30 but most people understand that everyone will arrive around 7.  Whatever – maybe I am crazy.  I have learned that there is one exception to my perpetual desire to never be tardy.  Chemo days.  I become the pokiest person on Earth those days.  I move around without a care in the world. I drive in the slow lane.  I let everyone in front of me in line.  I act as if I don't even understand concept of a schedule.   I do this because chemotherapy, with all of its healing properties, absolutely sucks.  Stephanie’s IV/IP chemo absolutely wipes her out to the point of barely being able to get out of bed for several days.  She describes it as a combination of these feelings: perpetual anxiety, un-addressable exhaustion, a never-ending hangover, eating two thanksgiving dinners in a row and feeling stuffed for days without relief.  It is awful.  Stephanie fears these days so much that I will find her quietly crying two days before.  If you know Stephanie, you know she is not a “crier” and she is definitely not scared of anything really.  So it is unsettling to see her so upset. Timing doesn’t matter on chemo days.  I don't care about her appointments.  We will get there when we get there because it isn't easy delivering her to a place where she will ultimately leave poisoned.