You know, one of the worst experiences of my adult life was feeding my father spoonsful of yoghurt in hospital and watching it dribble out of his mouth again. (He didn't have cancer; he'd had a stroke.) I didn't like him, never did, but it's a fact that he was a highly successful businessman, good at almost everything he did - other than getting on with his family - very much respected by his peers, and even after he got Maxwelled (publishing term) he carried on working with the Parish Council and his church. And then the stroke, and then this.
All of which was brought to mind by this morning's delightful breakfast of Muller rice (apple; I don't really like any of the other flavours), eaten very slowly, in half-spooonsful, so as not to burn my gullet or worsen the pain in my chest - which is drastically exacerbated if I try to eat or drink anything cold. It's actually not too bad at present, but we're treading warily. As pains go, it's not much fun, and it did have me wondering whether I should call it to the attention of the chemotherapy team. (Recent events notwithstanding, I have to be practically at death's door before I make a fuss. I know this is unwise.)
So. Muller rice. Yum. Is it any wonder that Mr Crab occasionally uncoils and demands a big plate of steak and chips?
I've had to give in to him a little, btw. He needs meat, and wouldn't give me any rest until he got it. So he's had a few bits of chicken, some ham, and a tiny bit of Quiche Lorraine. That's 35 years of strict vegetarianism and another 10 of fish-eating down the drain. But, I suppose, what does it matter in the end?
Chemo yesterday was not too bad, all things considered; we got there a bit early, and they managed to work a little faster than is sometimes the case - that "sometimes the case" does occasionally include gaps of up to an hour where they seem to have forgotten us altogether - so we got out not much after 6 in the evening, by which time most of the commuter traffic had died down. The main problem yesterday was my veins. It took them at least six tries - possibly seven - and three nurses before they could get a cannula in. It really can't go on this way, not if, as Judy says, I have months of this chemo ahead of me; I'll have to get a PICC line, or one of the alternatives. Again, not something that makes me want to do a little happy dance, but ... it's cancer. You do what you gotta do.
