I’ve been thinking. They should warn patients before chemotherapy that there is a risk whatever they eat in or around that time will be utterly repellant to them later. But here’s the problem. Once eating becomes a chore, you seek out old standbys for comfort and satisfaction. The very idea of potato chips right now is almost enough to make me wretch. Sparkling water is out the question. Spaghetti, especially al dente as the pizza place near the hospital made it, is borderline. Fortunately, yogurt still holds its appeal. But I may never eat boiled potatoes again. No great loss there.
I suppose this too will pass.
I am grateful that, in their great wisdom, the good doctors did not allow me to drink beer and red wine in the hospital.