Let us pretend, for the sake of - oh, I don't know, just pretending, perhaps - that today is Monday, 28 November, that I have just come back from chemo, and that I am blogging about it promptly in order to keep my memories up to date.
Ah, the heck with it. Let's not. It's actually the Saturday after, and this is as close as I've got all week to feeling well enough to write. Just the sitting up at the PC to type is an effort, and typing itself isn't made any easier by the fact that my finger ends are now almost entirely numb, where values of 'numb' = 'still hurt when you bang the keyboard a bit too hard by accident because you can't feel you're hitting anything until you do'.
The most that can be said, really, for chemo #4 is 'well, that happened'; it was pretty unremarkable. I've got to the point now where I just click into hospital coma mode as soon as I step inside the ward: lie down wherever they point me to lie down, rest my arm on a pillow, and let them get on with it.
Monday sessions are less satisfactory than the now-defunct Saturday sessions, for a number of reasons - traffic, parking, clinic busier, we don't get hands-on service from the very efficient Rosita - but the Saturday sessions ain't coming back, so there's no point bitching about it. The one thing that would've annoyed me if I'd had the energy to be annoyed is that the chemo staff have a team meeting from 9.00 to 10.00 in the morning and, my appointment being at 10.00, the nurse left in charge wouldn't let us in and give me my bed until then. When we went back in the room had filled up, so I think someone told her not to be so stupid. Anyway. I got a bed, Judy got a chair, we got medicated - well, I did; Judy worked on her cross-stitch; those are the main things.
Judy, as promised, remembered to let the nurses know that I wanted the cannula in my arm, not my hand. I still have a whacking great black bruise on my right hand from the blood transfusion cannula a week ago (also the bruise on my arm from the defective pressure cuff). I don't think, given what else they have to contend with, the chemo nurses fuss too much about bruising, but, as a patient, I say that every bit of pain I'm saved is ... I dunno, a penny earned, or something. A Good Thing. Anyway: cannula #1 failed, and I ended up with it left in my arm for the duration, even though the Team Leader herself came and put it in. Cannula #2 went into my other arm quite happily though, and did its thing, so all was well. Well, well-ish; I'm not entirely sure I got all the pre-meds I should've done, but I'm still here, so it can't matter too much.
Once I'd slipped into my usual state of oblivion, I think Judy had the more exciting time. From what I can tell, one and all around us were full of admiration for her cross-stitch; plus at one point the woman in the next chair was using a cold cap (no-one ever mentioned the cold cap's existence to me when we were talking about chemo, but it doesn't matter, I couldn't have used it anyway - claustrophobia) (yes, my claustrophobia is a real thing, and pretty bad; I shall be so fucked if I ever have to have an MRI), which first gave her a splitting headache and then made her vomit. I have to ask whether, in this case, the game is worth the candle. Someone did stop and admire my toenails. Now I think of it, that seems rather an odd thing to do. Never mind.
That's about it, I think, except that I had an upset stomach again on the way home and, once again, had to thank heaven fasting for Sainsbury's and their utilities. It cleared up reasonably quickly but, you know, it's never quite quick enough, and does make you most awfully miserable at the time.
Post-chemo hasn't been much fun this week; I've been less mopy and whiny than last go-round, I think - I hope; or at least, I've been trying to be - but I've suffered badly from fatigue, from aches and pains, in particular in my hip and knee and back joints, extra pain and fatigue from sitting, the aforementioned fuzzy fingers, breaking nails, garbage mouth, and acute chemo brain. It's started to have a deleterious effect on my vocabulary; I'm getting words confused, sometimes coming out with completely the wrong thing altogether, and, playing WWF just now, I could not for the life of me remember how to spell 'quiet'. This really hacks me off, words being pretty much my stock-in-trade, but ... once again, we file it under 'means to an end' and 'this too shall pass'. I hope. Also, the chemo smell is particularly smelly this time, or maybe I'd just forgotten how bad it was before. I have to say, "You have a life-threatening illness, the treatment for which is painful and deleterious, oh, yes, and also: you smell" is really just a low blow.
Because troubles never come singly, our plumbing decided to back up over the weekend, with the bath making scary glugging noises as it drained and then trying to flush two of the loos (we have three, that's how posh we are!) from the wrong direction. We really suck at being grown-ups, and we hate having to deal with this sort of thing. It turned out okay, though: Judy has emergency plumbing insurance with the water board and because it was drains and also, I say with a touch of pride because of me - because I'm an invalid, dontchaknow - it did qualify as an emergency, and they sent a plumber out as soon as possible on Tuesday, and it didn't cost us anything. One of the drains was, it turned out, pretty much flooded, so he de-clogged it, then plunged the bath and removed what appeared to be a small werewolf pelt but was, in fact, my chemo-ified hair - I apologised nicely - and all was well. At least, it's well at the moment, and I hope it stays that way.
Speaking of the hair, it's trying to grow back, or bits of it are, but so unsuccessfully that we took pity on it; Judy volunteered to clip it back down. Given the scant handful she accumulated from this, I'm glad I didn't get it done at a hairdresser - it really would have been almost £1 per hair!
While she was on a roll with doing grown-up things, Judy investigated the wilds of Launton and found that the rumours of a glass warehouse were true, so has now bought the piece of greenhouse glass she needed to replace the one that got knocked out by the wind a while back. It may not sound like much to you, but it's these little victories that pave our way through Life.
We have also, this week, been to Tesco, got my assorted prescriptions re-filled, bought a rather premature Christmas tree and wreath - the tree was in a pot, and Judy has given it a better pot and more soil, so it should be okay - and I've broken the back of my Christmas shopping without breaking my own back, although the same cannot be said of my bank balance, but the hell with it. This isn't going to be my last Christmas, but I'm jolly well going to enjoy it as if it might be. After all, it might be, and have nothing to do with Mr Crab. A toilet could drop on my head at any time. These things happen.
Most important of all, Judy went online to the early sales site on Thursday morning and bagged us a pair of tickets to Springsteen at something-or-other-stadium in Manchester in June. We have been going to Springsteen gigs now for some thirtyodd, sometimes very odd, years, and the ticket procuring process never gets any less traumatic. I think it's actually worse now than it was in olden days when you had to send an SAE off to Harvey Goldstein and hope for the best. You build up so much tension and adrenaline, crouching over the keyboard, desperately waiting for the site to go live - then crash, it always does - then refresh, it's a wonder that the rush of ticket sales isn't followed by the wail of many ambulances as half the Springsteen stalwarts in the land, none of us spring chickens, keel over from a string of heart attacks.
It will be strange to see Bruce without Clarence Clemons. That was just one of the shitty things that has happened in this shitty year: Clarence died of a stroke. My favourite writer, Diana Wynne Jones, died of Fucking Cancer early in the year. My brother set the scene by falling out of a loft trap when the year was barely new. Two other women writers who influenced me profoundly, Joanna Russ and Anne McCaffrey, have died this year. Judy was made redundant. And me ... well, you know about me.
But set against this the kindness of strangers. I was just looking at the cards ranged on my bookshelves; there are so many there that I actually can't see all of them, some have got lost behind others. Stuart dropped by this week, unexpectedly and bearing unexpected cake, which was delicious, by the way. A delivery that I thought would be my Christmas orders turned out to include Green & Black's choklit from lovely friend Ellie. And my sister sent me a new and rather fetching cancer hat ("It goes with your ensemble," said Judy; well, yes, given that the ensemble in question is a denim pinafore dress, black leggings and teeshirt, style queen that I am), and also made me a Mr Crab pincushion so that I can have the pleasure of stabbing him for a change. She even supplied the pins!
And that's just this week. I should have made a note of everyone who's sent cake or chocolate or spoons or cards or flowers, or any combination - or hats, or Trollbead bracelets!! Chemo-brain is making them blur. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate them; I do. I can't begin to tell you how much. Dealing with Mr Crab is a hell of a fight. I am inexpressibly lucky to have so many people fighting by my side.
Next week, I have actual Things in my diary: a visit by my office HR person and my line manager on Wednesday; a meal with former colleagues - which I hope I shall be able to taste by that time - and a visit beforehand by one of them on Thursday; and my brother who, I believe, is currently in Amsterdam and lamenting the de-potification of the coffeehouse, is, I hope, coming by on Friday.
This is more excitement than I ever had, pre-cancer. Thanks, Mr Crab!
Wait - what'm I saying?!
