With a title like that, I bet I know what you’re thinking. I am a citizen of the Cocktail Nation, and it’s no secret that like to get my drink on, so you’ve surmised that I get “polluted” on Saturday nights?

Nope.

This ain’t even about booze. It’s about pharmaceuticals.

It early October I switched to the drug Stelara to control the symptoms of Crohn’s disease. There are currently no other drugs on the market left for me to try. Unlike Entyvio, which required me to return to Seattle every two months for an infusion (my health insurance under the ACA covers care and treatment only in the state of Washington), I will self-inject Stelara. That is certainly more compatible with a nomad lifestyle, and much less expensive than parking the rig, arranging pet care, and flying back all the time.

But what if Stelara is not effective for me? If I want to return to Entyvio, which afforded me imperfect improvement, I must tamp down the ole immune system and keep antibodies from building up, creating a resistance to Entyvio.

This is where the poison comes in. Methotrexate, to be exact. Once a week, I take chemotherapy.

This isn’t the first time I’ve taken Methotrexate. In 2015 I gave myself shots of the stuff to the abdomen once a week. I lobbied hard to go off the drug after half a year due to nausea and hair loss, and my doctor capitulated.

This time, the chemo comes in the form of six little pills taken all at once.

Lucky me – I got to choose the day of the week to start chemo. In this RV lifestyle, I rarely change campgrounds on Sundays, because everybody and their brothers are doing it; I prefer to move on Mondays. It made perfect sense, therefore, to take the chemo on Saturday night, hopefully sleep through some of the symptoms, and rest up on Sunday.

The first week, I felt no symptoms at all. The second week, on Sunday I felt like I had been run over by a semi, but I also hiked over three miles the day before (yes, moi, hiking – more on that another time) and attributed my aches and pains to that.

Saturday night, I took my third round of chemo. I woke up yesterday feeling like I’d been run over by that same semi, but this time it backed up and rolled over me again. My limbs felt so heavy I could barely raise them. I thought I could sleep for a thousand years.

Of course, yesterday was unlike most Sundays. I was in Page, Arizona, and I wanted to fit in the North Rim of the Grand Canyon; its campground closes for the season on October 31, and mixed rain and snow is forecast for later this week.

I dragged myself out of bed, broke camp, drove the 2.5 hours on narrow, winding roads to the North Rim, and set up camp.

With only two days at the Canyon, and noting that yesterday’s weather was better for viewing than Monday, I immediately drove to the North Rim Lodge to walk the Bright Angel Point Trail – paved, and a little over half a mile round-trip, which should take about a half hour.

It took me over two hours.

Not only was I bone-achingly tired, but dizziness set in, a side effect of methotrexate – just perfect for walking a narrow trail along a 6,000 foot drop. I could walk only a few feet, then needed to sit and rest. A younger couple asked me if I was okay, and I explained a medication was making the walk challenging. I think they were sorry they asked.

I know I’m sick, but do I have to feel this fucking sick? Is it better to be disgustingly ill every seven days, or over-extend myself financially to get the necessary treatment in Seattle?

I’m not liking either of these choices. What’s behind door number three, Monty?

(By the way, the Canyon was beautiful yesterday. It’s my first time at the North Rim. Trying to remember to practice my thankfulness.)