I enjoyed the post-treatment arrangement, for I had always liked spending time with my sister and, at a distance of 80 miles, few were the occasions in which this was possible, especially since she had two young children and a home of her own to maintain. Although the circumstances under which I stayed with her were not the most appealing, we still found time to shop on good days or amuse each other through the situations that life itself readily provided. Several most unforgettable hours were spent laughing hysterically in front of the bathroom mirror. Since I had lost my hair, Sharon sewed two bonnets from scratch, cutting circles of material and fitting elastic within the perimeter, to warm my head when I slept or simply did not care to wear my wig. Having no pattern from which to judge an appropriate size, however, the bonnet was large enough to conceal my entire head; trying it on evoked immediate wails of laughter from us both. Of course, I could not let the matter rest and continued with further antics, shoving it over my ears and acting like an old woman who couldn't hear for the voluminosity of the hat, and then pulling it over my entire head with the elastic about my neck and pronouncing that I was a lollipop. Amid our slap-happy howls (for the hour was late), her husband must have wondered if we had lost our minds; moreover, we were trying our best to stifle our laughter so as not to disturb her sleeping boys, which, in such a hopeless situation, only served to escalate the humor reflected in the mirror. I was able to eat ravenously for three to four days following my treatment; this meant, of course, that I ate well until I had to return home, by which time my body had restored itself to a reasonable degree and no longer tolerated food to the extent it had initially. Mom soon developed a complex about her cooking, which persisted until summer when I went directly home after receiving treatments, instead of sojourning at Sharon's, and ate my Mom's culinary offering passionately. Upon my return to Moline I had to appear at the hospital for weekly blood tests to assure that my white count was not "low." If the test results were unfavorable, however, I had to have daily blood tests until my count was determined as normal again. A low white cell count paralleled a higher susceptibility to germs, as the immune system did not possess its usual fortitude; although, physically, I never felt any different when I had a low white count, emotionally it paralleled a fleeting cantankerousness on my part since I was not overly thrilled at the prospect of enduring more needles. I was fortunate that I never contracted any serious maladies; perhaps if I had been plagued by viruses I would not have viewed the routine blood tests with such disdainful inappreciation. As it was, my only health problem was cancer; all or nothing must have been my system's motto.