- which is merely my way of saying that I got fed up of the stupid fluffy bits that were left on my scalp and I got Judy to razor them off, going for the full Magwitch. It looks a bit bizarre, but at least I am now in no danger of being pulled in by the fuzz. (A painful procedure, at best.)
So. Anyway ...
According to my Little Red Chemo Book, my regimen - it is regimen, dear children, not regime, trust me on this, I'm an editor - is now Carbo/Taxol - Taxol. "That'd be Carbo, then," I said brightly. You would think that having only to be poisoned with one drug would result in a swifter recovery rate, and so it would if there were any justice in the world, but here we are, more than ten days later, and I still feel rotten. Meh, I say.
You would also think that having to take only one drug, discounting steroids and flushes and so forth, would be a whole lot quicker than the old six-hour procedure, but by the time you take into account the usual delays, the absence of a chemo nurse, the absent chemo nurse being Rosita, someone on the ward having an adverse reaction, and three goes with the cannula, we spent longer waiting for the chemo to start than the chemo itself actually took. Still, we have our own ways of amusing ourselves. You can play 'patient or carer?', which is by no means always obvious, and 'wig or not-wig?' - the trick here is to look for anything too perfect - and 'who's going to throw up first, please don't let it be me', and also 'are you trying complementary naturopathy, or do you actually enjoy chomping your way through an entire Tupperware of raw vegetables?' ... that one really needs a snappier name, although it's probably a one-off anyway, I doubt I'll find myself sitting next to the same woman again.
The chemo, when it finally arrived, and when I was finally cannulated, went off okay, except that the needle suddenly started to really, really hurt about ten minutes before the dose finished. I don't know if maybe a vein collapsed? I don't know what that would feel like. Either way, my arm is still quite sore now, and the bruise from the cannula is frankly magnificent.
On the upside, we didn't have to avail ourselves of Sainsbury's facilities on the way home. Really, it was very clever and thoughtful of Sainsbury's to open up a branch with a customer loo halfway between hospital and home. I should thank them. Possibly by buying something there. You know. Ever.
That was Monday - the Monday before Christmas, not the Monday just gone. On the Tuesday we had to be back at the Churchill again, this time for the chest clinic. Much to my woe, the lovely Naj wasn't there. We got a little girl - I'm sorry to be patronising, but the Churchill really does specialise in what I am sure are fully trained and highly specialised medical staff who look about twelve and weigh maybe 90 pounds soaking wet - who took my complaints of gaspiness and chest pains seriously enough to send me for a CT scan. She offered the charming suggestion that chemo might have given me blood clots on my lungs. My. Wouldn't that be fun, if true? I will spare you any suspense: nothing showed up on the scan, and even the original pleural effusion seems to be shrinking. So, clearly I am just making it up to put on airs. *sigh*
So home we went, and there was my brother and sister-in-law, and a whole lot of frozen vegetables. The veg came as a bit of a surprise (Tim and Michelle we were expecting), but Tim explained that they were to help make cooking Christmas dinner a bit easier. And so they did, and very thoughtful it was.
The BoyCat decided to spread his own version of Christmas cheer by refusing to come in for two nights and then vanishing altogether. It was probably a protest against all the people we'd had in the house; Penny had stayed the previous weekend (and had brought another lovely knitted blankie for me to wrap myself up in), and then the GC came, and then Lynn came to stay over Christmas, and then some people from work stopped in for a visit ... BoyCats do not approve of such goings-on. Although, given that the last time he vanished was on Hallowe'en, maybe he just has somewhere better to be on solstices. He was finally persuaded in on Christmas Eve, so we all settled down to have a lovely Christmas.
And we did. And god bless us all, said Tiny Tim. Especially the cats, who bought me a Slanket (there is a theory that it's actually their Slanket, but they'll let me borrow it to warm it up for them). And all the other people who bought me many, many lovely things - all of whom, I am embarrassed to admit, I still owe thank-you letters.
But what I have mostly been doing is sleeping. I do believe that the Tuesday of the chest clinic was in fact the last time I left the house. Which is a bit bad. As I write this, I am trying to muster up the energy to stagger - and by 'stagger' I mean 'get Judy to drive me' - up to the doctor's to pick up a prescription, and then into town to get it filled. Running out of codeine would be a pooey start indeed to the New Year.
A New Year that I do very much hope will be better than 2011. 2011 sucked!
