It is election day, and Jacqui and I exercised our democratic birthright just after lunch at the Russian Orthodox Church two blocks from our home.
It was a rough night and morning, and the puke-o-meter ticked up one notch to seven at around 6:30pm last night. It was not fun. When I vomit I look like a character out of The Omen, shooting green goo and Satan’s lymphatic spawn across the room, hopefully aiming well into a toilet.
I did my best to sleep off the post-nausea sickies, so I could eat enough democracy-laden food to give me the strength to vote. A scrambled egg, wheat toast, and a banana did the trick, and at around noon Jacq and I headed down to the polling place. The person in charge of the polling site noted that I had changed my hair, as my ID showed me with a full doo. I told her, eliciting great guilt, that my chemo laden head was not by choice, but that I would be OK, and that I was glad to be able to vote, even though I was afraid I might puke on the machine at the sight of the name Santorum (I am, at this moment, watching Santorum give what is a surprisingly gracious concession speech).
The nausea returned later in the day, and I ended up back at Penn for some routine blood tests, some fluids to fill up the tank following last night’s pukage, and anti-pukage medicine that has left me relaxing at home watching election returns come in (which, it is entirely possible, may also make me puke at some point, depending on the results).