My Side Table Knows Too Much

My Side Table Knows Too Much

🌼 Date: Friday, June 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Fragile, nauseous, and trying to rehydrate

❤️‍🩹 Status: Recovering from the Lupron gremlin

😣 Outlook: If survival had a table of contents, mine would apparently be sitting beside my recliner

After the night I had last night, today was not about doing big things.

Today was about recovering.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Gently.

With ginger ale, nausea meds, and the kind of cautious optimism you have when your stomach has recently betrayed you.

The Lupron side effects officially showed up last night, and they did not knock politely.

They kicked the door open, yelled “surprise,” and sent me running to the bathroom.

Vomiting is my least favorite side effect.

I know I have said that before, but it deserves repeating.

I hate it.

I hate the feeling.

I hate the panic.

I hate the way it takes over your whole body.

I hate the way it makes you scared to eat, scared to drink, scared to lie down, and scared to trust your own stomach.

So today, I was moving carefully.

Sipping carefully.

Eating carefully.

Existing carefully.

And while I was sitting in my recliner, I looked over at my side table and realized it basically tells the whole story of my life right now.

Not in a cute, staged, influencer way.

No aesthetic little tray with a candle, fresh flowers, and a book I pretend I am reading while looking peacefully out the window.

No.

This is not that table.

This is a lived-in table.

A survival station.

A “what fresh hell are we managing today?” table.

A table that has seen things.

There is a protein drink because I am still trying to get enough protein into this tired little body.

There is ginger ale because my stomach has been staging a rebellion.

There are tissues because sometimes the nose runs, sometimes the eyes leak, and sometimes cancer recovery requires emergency face-wiping for reasons that are both medical and emotional.

There is lotion because my skin is still ridiculously dry.

There is lip balm because apparently even my lips would like to participate in the peeling, cracking, dehydrated nonsense.

There is my little pink fan because hot flashes and hormone blockers are now part of the schedule.

There are earbuds because sometimes I need music, quiet, distraction, escape, or all of the above.

There is a lollipop from Casey because sometimes love looks like a tiny piece of candy left where you can reach it.

And honestly, that may be my favorite part.

Not because it is fancy.

Because it is sweet.

Because he pays attention.

Because he knows sometimes I just need a little something.

A little comfort.

A little treat.

A little reminder that I am loved in the middle of all this nonsense.

This table is messy.

But so is healing.

This table is cluttered.

But so is cancer recovery.

This table has drinks, lotions, tissues, medicine-adjacent supplies, comfort items, and evidence that I spend a whole lot of time parked beside it.

And that is the truth right now.

I am not out living some shiny post-treatment success story.

I am not magically back to normal because chemo and radiation are done.

I am not skipping through survivorship with perfect energy, glowing skin, strong nails, cooperative nerves, and a stomach that minds its own business.

I am here.

In the recliner.

With my protein drink.

My ginger ale.

My fan.

My tissues.

My lip balm.

My lotion.

My emotional support lollipop.

And my body still trying to figure out what chapter we are in.

Cancer recovery is weird because the world wants the story to move forward in a clean line.

Diagnosis.

Treatment.

Finish treatment.

Celebrate.

Move on.

But my body did not get that memo.

My body is still unpacking the damage.

Still reacting.

Still healing.

Still throwing weird little tantrums.

Still adding new side effects to the guest list like we are hosting the worst party ever.

Last night was rough.

Today was quiet.

And honestly, quiet was enough.

I did not need a big accomplishment.

I did not need to prove anything.

I did not need to be productive.

I needed fluids to stay down.

I needed my stomach to calm itself.

I needed to rest.

I needed to let my body recover from whatever hormone-blocker nonsense just hit it.

So that is what I did.

I sat beside my little table of chaos and survival.

I sipped.

I rested.

I breathed.

I tried not to poke the nausea bear.

And I let the day be small.

Sometimes that is recovery.

Not brave speeches.

Not big milestones.

Not dramatic victories.

Just a side table full of evidence that you are still trying.

Still managing.

Still adapting.

Still finding comfort wherever you can.

Today, my side table knew too much.

But it also held everything I needed within arm’s reach.

And that counts as love.

That counts as survival.

That counts as a win.

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One Badass Day at a Time