Well, internets, what a long, strange week it's been. Last Saturday morning I woke up in hospital, post-ascitic drain; yesterday I woke up in a hotel room in Manchester, post-Springsteen. What a difference a day makes. Or seven. Whatever.
In between these two things, I had a birthday. A big number, but not an important one. I'd asked people not to make too much fuss about it since, without wanting to sound like a self-righteous Facebook meme, all I really want is to not have cancer, and you can't gift-wrap that. But I got lots of books just the same, and several pairs of pyjamas (pyjama bottoms v useful for hospital, you can wear them under the hospital gown if you need to, and they're the best thing when you're having a drain, it looks stupid having a tube poking out the bottom of your nightie), and Lush stuff, and things; things including a Moomintroll tote bag (from lovely friend Joan) and a Troll bead and two rosebushes (from Judy, who is lovely by default). Equally lovely friend Nairne dropped by in the afternoon, fresh from a holiday in the Dominican Republic and, oh, yes, getting engaged, and showed off her absolutely-perfect amethyst ring; she brought some Gü choklit cake bars, too, so I even had birthday cake in manageable-sized chunks. And so everything in the garden was wonderful. (Everything in the garden actually is wonderful, as a matter of fact, and I would upload photos to prove it, only one of the side-effects of being ill, or possibly just of taking so many DRUGZ, is that I'm permanently shaky, so any photographs I take are seriously Dopplered.)
Because I am a girl who knows how to have fun, on Monday we were back at the Churchill again to get a PICC line inserted in my arm. That took an unconscionably long time; we were booked in for 10 in the morning, but it turns out they book everyone in for 10, and then take them one at a time. I was last, that probably goes without saying. It went okay, although I had some last-minute qualms about whether I really wanted it done just before I went miles and miles away for two nights - but the line nurse assured me it would be fine, which it was. The only slight hitch was that she inserted slightly too much line, and they had to pull it back 4 cm or so. I'm told this is not unusual. Maybe it's just me, but I feel it should be. Anyway, PICC line: sorted, and they even christened it by taking my pre-chemo bloods through it.
Tuesday - surprise, surprise - back to the Churchill again, this time for an afternoon chemo session, and I have to say that the PICC line really did save a lot of time, and a lot of painful jabbing. Other than that, the whole thing was pretty much unremarkable. The pre-chemo Piriton sent me to sleep, which it always does and which, on the whole, I think is a good thing, else I'd have to stay awake and read the hospital magazines, some of which date back to 2005 and all of which are still to this day obsessed by Princess Di.
Wednesday we wandered into Bicester; Judy got her nails done, and I pottered around and did a few useful bits and pieces. I didn't get my hair cut off, there was a huge, long wait, but I established that the walk-in salon will do it without making "Eww, icky cancer!" noises. So one would hope, but you never know.
Lynn arrived on Wednesday evening, to house- and cat-sit for us while we were away, and we set out for Manchester late Thursday morning. I was vaguely worried/annoyed to find that, for the second week in a row, my ankles had swollen up - which I suppose must be a chemo side-effect - but since they had un-swollen again the previous week without too much bother I decided not to stress about it.
The drive went smoothly and without undue incident, and we got to the hotel mid-afternoon. Checked in. Discovered, to my distinct lack of amusement, that, whilst Premier Inn are happy to advertise hotel rooms "from £27 per night", ours was going to cost us £50 for the Thursday and £100 for the Friday. We could've booked a proper hotel for that, or near enough. It was a horrid room, too; small enough that I was afraid it would trigger my claustrophobia, and absolutely boiling hot. It was 23 degrees when we checked in, and only got hotter. That meant having to leave the window open - as much as it would open - all night, which meant constant traffic noise, which meant goodbye to the hotel's "good night's sleep" guarantee.
Friday morning I pretty much insisted we go out, because I couldn't stay in that room all day. I'm afraid that I shall never love Manchester (I've just noticed that I've typed 'Birmingham' for 'Manchester' throughout this blog, and have just had to go back and change it. All these places are alike to me) - as I was saying, never love Manchester as perhaps its natives love it. It was absolutely pissing down with rain, and didn't stop all the time we were there, and nothing looks its best under those circumstances, but I'm not entirely certain Manchester has a best to look. No doubt I'm wrong. We didn't do much except stagger round the Arndale Centre and pick up a few bits and pieces, but that was more than enough for me, I had to keep finding excuses to sit down as it was. Then we got a taxi back to the hotel, and got lost. We got found again pretty fast, but still. Unimpressed.
There were rather a lot of taxis involved in our flying visit. It's not my usual mode of transport, but when you're in a completely strange town, not very well, and it is, as I said before, pissing down, you don't really want to be standing around waiting for a bus to who-knows-where.
So, back to the hotel, to doss about in the nasty, hot, stuffy room until such time as we could reasonably get changed and make a move stadium-wards. On the whole, it's as well we didn't leave it too late, since the reception staff had made a total hash of ordering cabs for people going to the concert, and the lobby was in chaos. We just grabbed the first taxi we saw, on the grounds that if it wasn't ours then it ought to be, and took another stray couple along with us as a proffering to the taxi-gazumping gods, if there are any. Horribly congested roads all the way to the stadium, but we got there in the end; avoided getting our bags searched, not that there was really anything in there that could be objected to - I had, for once, remembered to take out my Swiss Army knife; climbed up, and up, and up, and up to level 3, which is about 20 miles in the air (I may, perhaps, exaggerate just ever so slightly); found our seats, and settled in for the duration.
BRUCE!!!
There is no point my trying to talk about the concert; you've either been there and get it, or you don't. There's a setlist and some linkies here: http://brucetapes.com/2012/06/23/bruce-springsteen-2012-06-22-etihad-stadium-manchester-uk/. It's enough to say that for three and a half hours I almost completely forgot about being ill, and jumped around and danced (okay, jiggled from foot to foot) and waved my arms about - it is v annoying my PICC line having to be in my right arm, that's my air-punching arm - like an idiot. The woman next to me was doing the same, but rather more so, so I didn't dare sit down too much for fear I might lose an eye. (The woman next to Judy clearly hated the whole thing. There's no pleasing some people.)
And then it was all over, and there was nothing left but to pick up and go back to the hotel. Or try to. I'll draw a veil over the sheer awfulness of that experience. The authorities had decided that the best way to get rid of however many thousand people was to round up all the city centre buses they could and ferry them out that way. Which meant a bus queue ... I don't know, it must've been about a mile long, it took us a good 40 minutes to get to the end of it. And then the slow shuffle forward, eventually squeezing onto a bus with no seats left (that's when I really wished I'd had my head shaved so that I'd look properly cancery so someone would give me their seat). The bus itself only moved at a crawl, even once it got away from the stadium. And then it dropped us somewhere in Manchester - allegedly close to Piccadilly Station, but we never saw it. It was 1.00 in the morning, we were lost, and the nightlife of Manchester was just picking up steam ...
It could have been quite nasty, but, for once, the guardian angel was on duty and doing his job; a cab dropped off a fare just where we were standing, and we grabbed him before he could get away, although this involved having to crawl through a pavement barrier. Back to the hotel room, now hotter and stuffier than ever; undress, attempt to unwind, and crash.
At least we got some sleep that night.
Saturday morning we waved a thankful goodbye to all points north and headed back down the motorway again. I would never have thought I would be so grateful to see the county sign for Oxfordshire ...
So, basically - everything pretty much sucked except for Bruce; but Bruce made up for everything else sucking. I have decided that I shall give up conventional cancer treatment and instead buy a camper van and some garments fashioned of patchwork and untreated leather and just follow Bruce around the country for the rest of my life, since he clearly has miraculous healing powers that have hitherto been untapped.
Not really. I can't drive, for a kick-off. Or sew, so so much for the patchwork. Eh, well; it was a lovely thought.
To cheer me up, now that BruceDay has been and gone and I have nothing else to look forward to until The Hobbit comes out in December, I had an excellent stack of mail waiting for me: my discount voucher from work, which apparently I can still use, despite having been off sick for over a year; two £2 vouchers from the Co-op (hey, it all helps!); a bank statement that showed that the JobCentre's paid the back payment they reckoned they owed me, which is worth having; and confirmation from my hospital insurance company that they'll pay me for all my recent stays in the Churchill, which is also worth having. (I know it's not polite to talk about money, but it is such a worry.)
And Lynn was well, and had even cut the lawn for us, and the cats had been good, and everything in the garden ... oh, I already said that. Well, it was. And it is.
And today the sun has come out.
