Well. I apologise for being neglectful and not updating.
I have wanted to. But you see cancer totally took over my life this week.
I left you after my return home last week following our second bout of chemo, the end of round one of shrink you Bastard, shrink.
I was prepared, I knew I was going to feel awful. I knew I would be in pain for two days solid and I would feel so nauseous it would be unbearable. Or I thought I was. You see this time, I started to feel ill before I even left the 'therapy room'. I made it home and crawled into my sofa rut ready to ride out the worst of the after effects. I had my bucket, my hot water bottle, my cache of pain killers and my trusty television remote.
Not everyone feels this bad, some just feel tired, some carry on with barely registering a blip. I am unlucky. Again. I am fairly sure the luck fairy has been given a dodgy satnav because my address clearly doesn't appear on it. There it is, the self pity. I promised I wouldn't do that, I said to myself, don't wallow. I'm afraid I fell at the first hurdle. I am wallowing. I hate it. I hate what it does to me and I hate that it is robbing me of any meaningful life at present. While I cope with the side effects I am unable to interact in family life. I am doing this for my family but never have I felt so disconnected from them. Ever.
Coming up to 48 hours after the session I caved I rang the emergency hotline number that all chemo patients are handed. We have to be so careful of infection as it can be lethal. I rang to check out my strong smelling urine and ended up having to go in to be checked over. I looked and felt grey. They lay me down in a cubicle and agreed I didn't look well and that I would not be going home until they had got some fluids into me. I was barely drinking and certainly not eating and hadn't since Thursday lunchtime. Efficiently and effectively they began the process of rehydrating me and breaking the cycle of nausea with anti sickness medication. Ultimately I ended up on a syringe driver, providing me a steady constant dose of medication and slowly I began to feel more human and resumed eating. If you like me are receiving chemotherapy and you feel this bad, don't, you don't need to, please tell them, they want to help you. There are things to help. I will ensure I do from now on. I have my own syringe driver now. I am prepared for Round Two of shrink you Bastard, shrink.
My consultant learnt I had been admitted and came to see me, he wanted to discuss the 'bone scan', he had arranged to bring it forward. I wasn't prepared for this. I was scared of the scan. I knew it meant knowing more about the 'Bastard'. Now I had to face it alone and sooner. I am and have always been a pessimist, it helps me to think about things like that. I struggle to understand how people can think positively if there is a chance they are going to hear bad news. I knew this meant I might have bone cancer. I asked if this would mean my deepest fear of receiving the Terminal Diagnosis. My consultant is a straight up kind of chap. He won't flannel me. I asked. He replied. Yes... I then asked a question I didn't really want the answer to. I asked if it could be treated. He said he cannot eradicate it and that for me it would mean no longevity of life. No longevity of life. I rolled that over my tongue a few times. The porter came and I had the scan.
I entered my own personal hell from that moment in. How do you cope with preparing yourself to hear that diagnosis? This was enormous. A came to drop some stuff off, we talked, we cried, we hugged, we feared. I am not ashamed to admit that I spent most of the rest of the day breaking down on and off. I couldn't help but think of my family. Me not being there. I tortured myself. I asked for prayers. I admire those who face these moments stoically. I certainly wasn't. I cried. I apologised for crying. I cried some more. They provided me with a palliative care Dr and Macmillan nurse to talk to. It didn't help. I got angry. I got angry at those around me, they were going to have a life, they WERE having a life. I didn't want to be reminded that they were if I wasn't. So wrong of me. I would be lying though if I told you I hadn't felt like that and I told you I am a good truth teller. Then a friend said she was on her way. She was coming. All the way from London. Just like that. I clung to that. I wasn't going to face the night alone.
Friends came to visit but I was like a prisoner on death row. I had pronounced on myself my own death sentence and was not prepared to think about anything else. We all cried. I was tired but couldn't sleep. How was I going to sleep? I am not sure how but the hours slipped by and my friend arrived. The hospital kindly set up a bed for her and I had company for the night and was able feeling secure to drift off.
Waiting for the consultant to arrive in the morning was awful. He did not keep us hanging on and arrived earlier than expected with the 'Results'. He told me the scan proved my skeleton was clear but they were still unsure about a part of my pelvis and that an abnormality had been seen on the CT scan. He wanted to give me a definitive answer but couldn't and needed to have the report in from the MRI scan the following day to be sure. So no real resolution. A stay of execution if you will? Mixture of relief that my skeleton was clear but fear that my pelvis might not be. We are learning, this process is about uncertainty and time wasted waiting for results.
While we await results we attempt to live, try to carry on, the car needs an MOT, the children need to go to school and the boys need a stimulating daily routine. This is the hardest thing to maintain, a routine, it is surprising how much you rely on a routine to take you through each day. It is only when you are removed from the routine, the need for routine that you realise this. Routine equals normality. I am excused the need for routine. I want routine back.
