Post 10: Empathy overload
Vital statistics:
Temp: 36.3 – perfect 
BP: 130/79/42
Weight: stable but feeling full
Hair: no change – pillow clean 
Anything else? Evening walks might be best
This morning at 03:50 (sounds rather like an 1980’s Squeeze lyric), My Darling’s alarm goes off to wake her for work. In the dark, her hand stretches over to me and lands on my head—forehead to be exact. I realise instantly it’s a health check, not a loving touch.
“I guess you want the temp gauge?” I say.
She flicks a switch and our eyes are blasted with light. She presses the test button, the eerie green beam shows it’s recording, and 10 seconds later (she didn’t give birth to a daughter) we’re relaxed.
36.4 degrees.
She can go to work happy, for now, and I can get back to sleep.
She leaves me after her shower, slipping on her hospital fatigues, with a light kiss on the cheek and an important directive:
“Send me a photo of your breakfast. Don’t forget!”
“Yes. Love you. Byeee. Safe journey. Don’t work too hard…” And she’s gone.
——————————-
Last night’s walk was a shift in timing but a lovely, short moment of well-earned fresh air. The evening clouds cast no shadows, but they tried to spit a bit of refreshing rain on our heads. It’s been so dry these last two months that the usual spring flowers haven’t bloomed. Only the golden dandylions.
Perhaps I should have watered the poor blighters… but I didn’t. I’m no Percy Thrower.
We didn’t get wet, the rain came to naught, and the garden stays dry.
————————
My self-imposed lockdown is mainly to avoid infections—and also the likelihood of sun damage as I got the other day, in double quick time. I’ve always loved the sun and always worn shorts (all year, even in the snow), but that’s now over.
I’m not sure if my skin’s changed for good since the chemo, but I expect it has. I remember Shirley’s late hubby, Frank, an ex-farmer who spent his life outdoors. In retirement, his meds tainted his skin, and he lived in the shade from then on. I suppose that’s another effect I’ll have to live with.
That said, I was emotionally affected yesterday reading a couple of posts on the Mac-Forum during my spells awake. Yes, I was a bit of a cat yesterday.
Which reminds me—Mr Vicious has not bothered to come in the house for a week or more. He’s happy being toasted in the conservatory while he sheds his winter coat for a lighter summer jacket. At least I haven’t been in danger of a sharp, dirty talon attack during an innocent and invited tummy rub.
But I digress.
Reading posts from partners struggling with helplessness—watching their fellers blindly soldier on through treatment—really hit me. One post in particular, from a partner at her wit’s end, struck a nerve.
To me, it’s empathy overload. Another victim of this couple’s cancer.
I stopped myself from replying—I’m no expert, and didn’t want to be the first voice—but it troubled me.
Last year, I put My Darling through a long period of pain. My introspection and mind-chaos peaked this time last year and lasted six months.
I know some of what that feller is going through.
And I know what it does to the partner.
I sympathise, but sometimes struggle to act.
For me, I couldn’t—and didn’t want to—change. I’m me. Strong, independent. Like I’ve always been. I make the choices.
But really, my choices vanished with my first chemo treatment, after 14 months of pills. The shock of a treatment failure—or rather, a body failure—is hard to take.
So, again the ground under my feet swelled up and put me back front-and-centre with the specialist oncologist, feeling like I was back at square one.
All those same feelings of doom.
It’s ridiculous, looking back, that I was so badly affected by a simple change in pills—from Abiraterone Acetate to Olaparib (the wonderful PARP inhibitor). They caused me no fuss or bother in my daily routines, unlike now with infusions at the pit-face… just like all of you other survivors going through the same—at ground level, green area, bay B, seat/bed 5.
I realise many forum users are read-only—which I was for a long time too—but I wish I responded to more posts, just to say: “I’m listening.”
That reminds me—since last Monday, when I took my last dose of Olaparib before Tuesday’s infusion, the dry patch in my right ear has completely healed. Wow!
This little unexpected skin blemish has been really irritating me—on both levels.
Yes, only a bit of eczema, but it made me doubt my overall wellness. I’ve gone 59 years with “Perfect Skin” (oh, that sounds like another musical Commotion), and now I feel free from the daily grind of white dust and E45 in my lug-hole.
I’m delighted.
I’m tired but content.
The Tricycle Loop is going well.
I’m comfortable, and I feel well.
