Ideally I was to eat several small meals throughout the passage of the day; this would better allow my stomach to process food, as well as give my body the sustaining energy it so desperately needed. I was not overly thrilled at this proposition, as eating seemed only an open invitation to sickness and discomfort. To facilitate my obedience to a greater degree, my dad offered a monetary reward for drinking a quart of milk each day. I accepted the offer, yet remained wary of food. Although there was nothing which did not, at one time or another, turn my stomach, I discovered that certain foods disagreed less than others. One of the "sure things" was bread... the more refined, the better. So called "health foods" were always a mistake, as were foods rich in fat or sugar, such as salads tossed with mayonnaise or pies of any concoction. Oddly enough, I seemed to be able to eat cake; I determined that this was due to its bread-like consistency. Perhaps other successes such as my aptitude for chocolate, were based more on luck than digestibility, yet chocolate was eaten quite frequently throughout the year in which chemotherapy treatments were administered. My eating habits and general health depended on the schedule of chemotherapy. Directly following my last treatment in the five day series, I could eat voraciously, (or so I thought in comparison to my usual appetite). Then, after three or four days, I would again return to "normal," fostering nausea after each morsel of food. Needless to say, my lust for food disintegrated upon the arrival of nausea and I had to force myself to eat, which quickly became tiresome, for I realized that only sheer luck would save me from sickness. Furthermore, I actually became weary after a meal accompanied by stomach complaints; my body, I rationalized, was trying to relax itself to dispose of nausea, or the nausea caused such inner chaos that my body wore itself out during the conflict. Soon after the chemotherapy treatments had commenced, my sister offered her assistance with the latest family concern and expressed interest in monitoring my progress and general state of health. Through mutual agreement, a plan materialized in which, on our way home from Rochester, Mom and I should stop at Sharon's house after about five and a half hours of driving, where I would then remain for three or four days while my parents were at work. In this way, I was not alone when I felt the weakest, and could easily obtain help if I needed it. Saturday morning my parents would bring me home.