My appointment was on Wednesday to have my PORT fitted. I literally can’t describe how much I was shitting myself to have this procedure done while I was awake. My sister kept telling me the NHS weren’t going to physically torture me for the sake of it, but my brain was running wild with how this was going to play out. I had to be at the outpatient’s unit for 11am. I didn’t go down to theatre till 4pm. That’s a long time to sit with my own thoughts and work out how painful it might be to have a tube inserted in trough my neck and into my heart. Turns out it was totally fine! No pain and not even uncomfortable. It took about an hour and the team were so amazing telling me what would happen and keeping me distracted that it didn’t even feel that long at all. No pain killers were needed after either. My wounds are tiny and so neat. The surgeon matched one of the incisions to a line of my tattoo, so it won’t be seen once it’s healed. Sleeping has been a bit uncomfortable. It’s annoying me that I can’t wriggle about the place, but recovery has been a dream. I can’t wait to not have to fit with a cannula ever again!
That’s where the dream ends. (Warning: negative Nancy incoming)
I feel like I’ve been a pure moaning Myrtle these last few weeks. I just can’t brush off the shit that’s happening. I’ve struggled to find the funny side in anything and in general, I’ve been a massive mood hoover. I can acknowledge the pain in the arse that I’ve been. I’ve have not just a day, but literally a duvet week. It wasn’t until Friday that I got my life in order and got out of bed all day. I was smelly and dirty and felt gross. I didn't even care. As a treat for making it to the shower I ordered a mountain of Mc Donald food. As an adult I can reward myself with food. Well done me for brushing my teeth, here’s a Maccys. I was meant to be going on a girl’s trip to a lodge but with an MRI scan at 9am on Saturday morning (yeah I know, pure joke) I stayed home Friday night overcome with FOMO. Anyway, that was not to be. Another face slap to knock me down. Someone in our friendship group got Covid. I couldn’t risk being around any of the girls who had been in contact with them on the Friday. I had a massive breakdown and literally threw a temper tantrum on my front room floor. I was livid that this weekend that I had been dreaming of was no more. And even more livid that the rest of my mates were all still together isolating having a blast.
I reacted the only way I knew how. I ordered £60 worth of sushi from my favourite restaurant and I went wild internet shopping. I ordered loads of new rings (my fat sausage fingers will no longer hold my lush, good jewellery) and spend a disgusting amount of money on new bedding. If I’m going to fester and be super pathetic spending days in bed, I’m going to do it in 1000 count Egyptian sateen cotton sheets. It felt good.
Yesterday, the motivation to crack on with life and be on top form returned. I got up early and cleaned the house, at 11am I cracked open a bottle of Prosecco and made a mimosa and got in the bath. I pampered myself from head to toe, fake tanning, manicure and pedicure, face masks the lot. One thing to add to the positivity pile is that I’ve not had to shave or wax since my first chemo cycle. I’m obsessive about moisturising daily anyway but my skin is super soft too. I’ve taken the advice online and stuck with black gels on my fingers and toes and so far so good, my nails are growing at normal pace and they are still strong.
Last night disaster struck again. Every time I have a nice day, cancer has to fuck it up. I got an infection so another trip to hospital and antibiotics for a week. This sounds like a lie, but I was really looking forward to going back to work today. I felt like I needed some structure to my day, to get up and have something constructive to do and not just laze about. Instead, I spent all morning on the phone to the oncology ward and my GP, arranging prescriptions and ensuring everyone knew what’s happened and what the plan is for this week. They wanted to push back my treatment but that is 100% not happening. I feel totally fine. At 1pm I sacked off trying to work today. Feeling again like another day had been taken away, I watched Netflix and rolled my eyes at myself shaking my head. That’s just my constant state of play to myself about my situation. It makes me feel better that I acknowledge its crap.
Let’s try again tomorrow. I’ve only got 3 days now then we’re back for round 3 of chemo.
