22/02/15
I'm not sure if I'll be up to the blog this week. As such as i'm going to do one of those check in and let you know what's going on as it happens type entries. Apologies, as this may well mean I'm not as utterly hilarious as usual. It may also mean this post is a little bit all over the place.
1.30 tomorrow the chemo starts. I have started taking the anti nausea drugs already. This may have helped me to eat an entire 'large' fully chemical, totally non organic, absolutely processed hot dog at the cinema when we took oldest son to Shaun The Sheep today. Yes, I had coke too. And popcorn. Sorry to those of you who've suggested the vegan, veggie, non-processed, organic, carb free diet as a way of making chemo bearable. I kind of think if my mouth is going to be full of ulcers and I'm going to be vomming up everything I eat then I might as well enjoy what I eat. Sorry again. Still feel bad about saying that. I know everyone who has offered advice has my wellbeing at the very heart of it. But... a little of what you fancy does you good... maybe?! Would it help if I said I was about to have a hot cross bun or two? But seriously, I ALWAYS have at least my five a day, I take lots and lots of wonderful vitamin supplements, I drink at leat two litres of water a day and when I'm not laid down with bloody cancer I do quite a lot of exercise. Anyway, excuses and apologies over. The strong stuff starts tomorrow. I'll check in then.
27/02/15
Spot the deliberate mistake...
This isn’t the next day, this is five days later. I can’t say that I’ve been knocked to the point of total immobility but I’ve not been – how shall I put it? – myself.
The chemo itself was ok. I trotted along to the RUH with my lovely Dave and waited my turn in the really very pleasant waiting room. There’s a bit of a Dunkirk spirit there; it could go either way of course. It’s the only place in the world I can sit and know for a fact that the majority of people in the same room have been forced to consider their mortality in the same brutal way that I have. It’s one of the few places my baldy head doesn’t get the confused stares and it’s one of the few places I feel pretty much at ease these days. Weird how things turns out.
What surprised me initially was the sheer number of people having chemo, at least twenty just at that time and I knew there would have been lots more in the morning and plenty more after me. The nurse, Annie, said it was a quiet day as well. Some people had been there all day, some people were wearing (and hating) the cold caps to prevent hair loss, some people were braving the baldness, some people were wigged up and some were rocking the scarves. There seemed to be more women than men but that might have just been my perception.
The one thing that drew everybody together was the same distinct look of resignation. That’s what made me take my deep breaths.
I got a nice spot near a window and had to spend a while with my hand immersed in warm water – my veins had gone into hiding and were refusing to play ball so they had to be coaxed out again. Then the canula was put in, the drip attached and the official checking over and over again of who I was and what the medication was. It seemed extreme but of course the last thing one wants is to get the wrong dose of chemotherapy when one’s oncologist has worked exactly what and how much you need. It’s a very precise science.
There are three different drugs in my chemo; amusingly it’s abbreviated to FEC. One of them is putrid pink in colour which came into its own when I visited the loo. There are loads of jokes to be made about chemo, I’m not sure if I’ve decided they’re appropriate or not yet though…
Since Monday I’ve felt – to coin my cancer friend’s spot on term – as if I’ve been sat on by an elephant. It’s been mostly uncomfortable rather than painful (apart from yesterday morning when it felt as if my kidneys had been squeezed through a sieve), there’s a horrid, claggy taste in my mouth, my eyes are dry and sore, my bladder feels like it’s got mild cystitis and the waves of nausea come and go. I haven’t actually been sick. Lucky me.
I’d thought this entry would end up being an uber dramatic few words, dated, highlighting my chemo plight with acid language and insightful humour. It’s not. It is, frankly, pretty boring. A bit like chemo. I wish I had more to tell you but in a way I’m glad I’m not as I keep being reminded the effect of chemo is cumulative, I ought to think myself lucky this is all I’ve had to endure so far.
But this is it; it’s endurance. There’s no luck, there’s no joy, there’s no space for me to think up sentences to be proud of because my brain has gone to fudge and my fingers feel fat and tingly. My energies are focused on feeling ok enough for a few minutes or hours a day so that I might have a bit of quality time with my boys. Bless them, they’ve already realised that the best way to spend any time with Mummy right now is to climb into bed next to her and watch TV. Next week will be better, I tell them, next week I’ll be back to normal.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies/
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Silencing-Ghosts-Felicity-Gibson-ebook/dp/B00FT686WY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1425035726&sr=8-1&keywords=silencing+the+ghosts
I'm not sure if I'll be up to the blog this week. As such as i'm going to do one of those check in and let you know what's going on as it happens type entries. Apologies, as this may well mean I'm not as utterly hilarious as usual. It may also mean this post is a little bit all over the place.
1.30 tomorrow the chemo starts. I have started taking the anti nausea drugs already. This may have helped me to eat an entire 'large' fully chemical, totally non organic, absolutely processed hot dog at the cinema when we took oldest son to Shaun The Sheep today. Yes, I had coke too. And popcorn. Sorry to those of you who've suggested the vegan, veggie, non-processed, organic, carb free diet as a way of making chemo bearable. I kind of think if my mouth is going to be full of ulcers and I'm going to be vomming up everything I eat then I might as well enjoy what I eat. Sorry again. Still feel bad about saying that. I know everyone who has offered advice has my wellbeing at the very heart of it. But... a little of what you fancy does you good... maybe?! Would it help if I said I was about to have a hot cross bun or two? But seriously, I ALWAYS have at least my five a day, I take lots and lots of wonderful vitamin supplements, I drink at leat two litres of water a day and when I'm not laid down with bloody cancer I do quite a lot of exercise. Anyway, excuses and apologies over. The strong stuff starts tomorrow. I'll check in then.
27/02/15
Spot the deliberate mistake...
This isn’t the next day, this is five days later. I can’t say that I’ve been knocked to the point of total immobility but I’ve not been – how shall I put it? – myself.
The chemo itself was ok. I trotted along to the RUH with my lovely Dave and waited my turn in the really very pleasant waiting room. There’s a bit of a Dunkirk spirit there; it could go either way of course. It’s the only place in the world I can sit and know for a fact that the majority of people in the same room have been forced to consider their mortality in the same brutal way that I have. It’s one of the few places my baldy head doesn’t get the confused stares and it’s one of the few places I feel pretty much at ease these days. Weird how things turns out.
What surprised me initially was the sheer number of people having chemo, at least twenty just at that time and I knew there would have been lots more in the morning and plenty more after me. The nurse, Annie, said it was a quiet day as well. Some people had been there all day, some people were wearing (and hating) the cold caps to prevent hair loss, some people were braving the baldness, some people were wigged up and some were rocking the scarves. There seemed to be more women than men but that might have just been my perception.
The one thing that drew everybody together was the same distinct look of resignation. That’s what made me take my deep breaths.
I got a nice spot near a window and had to spend a while with my hand immersed in warm water – my veins had gone into hiding and were refusing to play ball so they had to be coaxed out again. Then the canula was put in, the drip attached and the official checking over and over again of who I was and what the medication was. It seemed extreme but of course the last thing one wants is to get the wrong dose of chemotherapy when one’s oncologist has worked exactly what and how much you need. It’s a very precise science.
There are three different drugs in my chemo; amusingly it’s abbreviated to FEC. One of them is putrid pink in colour which came into its own when I visited the loo. There are loads of jokes to be made about chemo, I’m not sure if I’ve decided they’re appropriate or not yet though…
Since Monday I’ve felt – to coin my cancer friend’s spot on term – as if I’ve been sat on by an elephant. It’s been mostly uncomfortable rather than painful (apart from yesterday morning when it felt as if my kidneys had been squeezed through a sieve), there’s a horrid, claggy taste in my mouth, my eyes are dry and sore, my bladder feels like it’s got mild cystitis and the waves of nausea come and go. I haven’t actually been sick. Lucky me.
I’d thought this entry would end up being an uber dramatic few words, dated, highlighting my chemo plight with acid language and insightful humour. It’s not. It is, frankly, pretty boring. A bit like chemo. I wish I had more to tell you but in a way I’m glad I’m not as I keep being reminded the effect of chemo is cumulative, I ought to think myself lucky this is all I’ve had to endure so far.
But this is it; it’s endurance. There’s no luck, there’s no joy, there’s no space for me to think up sentences to be proud of because my brain has gone to fudge and my fingers feel fat and tingly. My energies are focused on feeling ok enough for a few minutes or hours a day so that I might have a bit of quality time with my boys. Bless them, they’ve already realised that the best way to spend any time with Mummy right now is to climb into bed next to her and watch TV. Next week will be better, I tell them, next week I’ll be back to normal.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies/
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Silencing-Ghosts-Felicity-Gibson-ebook/dp/B00FT686WY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1425035726&sr=8-1&keywords=silencing+the+ghosts