Post 104: Counselling and ready-mix!
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I’d like to introduce you to
a friend I’ve known for life.
He’s pushed me to the limits
and kept me from some strife.
But sometimes even he breaks down—
it’s hard to work out why.
The struggles we both have right now
are hurting me and I.
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A call late yesterday afternoon from the MRI suite led to an early start this morning. They’d had a cancellation: 8am sharp. I gladly accepted.
But that meant my usual Monday stroll to counselling was going to be a challenge. Still, I had a cunning plan: a walk, and a bit of time to moi (myself).
My Darling called up from downstairs, jangling the car keys: “You’ll be late!” “Have you taken your pills?”
“Yes,” “I’m coming,” I replied, flying down the stairs in a bit of a rush.
I hate being late—one of my quirks—and delaying the MRI team? Unforgivable. So we joined the morning commuters in their Monday rituals.
Mr Vicious was fed. I had my special non-metallic MRI shorts on. I’d left my gold necklace from my late Mum at home. I was all set.
Don’t stop me now! (As Freddie used to say.)
My Darling only had to drop me by the Hospital helipad before heading home for her scheduled call from Occupational Health. (More on that later.)
With a blown kiss, she was off, and I strode into the new building, where automatic doors and idiot-proof signage made the process seamless.
Within minutes, I was on the bed.
I knew this would be a long one, they already said over an hour (Gulp!) so I got as comfy as possible. But not comfy enough for an hour and ten minutes being slowly cooked. Crikey alive!
After a long long time my calves, heels and my legs were numb. My toes had already gone to sleep. Just when I thought we must be nearing the end, the voice returned:
“Breathe in… breathe out… breathe in and hold your breath…”
Again and again and again. The calm voice repeated, my legs screamed. I counted in Mississippi time to distract myself.
Thirteen, fourteen, fif—
“—and breathe,” the voice soothed.
I don’t mind the armour or the confined space much, but this was getting to me. I started worrying why it was taking so long.
Had they seen something? Were they looking for something?
At last, the bed slid me out of the tunnel and back to the arms of the kind nurses who removed my armour and set me free.
I was okay, physically. But the duration had me spooked.
Come on Mr U, get a grip!
I called My Darling: “I’m done, heading off now. See you at midday at the hospice café. Love you.”
And off I went.
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A mile’s walk to the final session of counselling lay ahead. The tarmac path was lined with overgrown hedges, brambles, nettles—and smelled glorious after last night’s rain. A peaceful twenty-five minutes through late-summer growth.
How hospices survive, I don’t know. The care they provide is priceless. I’ve raised money for them before, but I feel ashamed I haven’t done more.
I arrived early, bought some bottled water, checked out the hot lunch menu (too early yet), and rang home to see how My Darling’s call went.
“Oh no.”
“Really?”
“Are they nuts?” I whispered.
They called her mobile again—despite being told (three times!) her phone doesn’t accept No Caller ID calls. So, another missed call, another delay.
Another week to wait.
You could hear the frustration in her voice. What can you do?
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The counsellor found me an hour later, still sipping water and fiddling with the draft of the complaint reply email. Which I finally gathered the courage to send. Great. It’s done and out of my head.
Relief.
Fifty minutes of talking, releasing, crying… gone in a flash. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this reflective hour I’ve had weekly for the past six weeks. But we left it open: I can re-refer if I need it later. The offer of return means more than she probably knows. I feel I will be back after the next insurmountable worry.
As the counsellor returned me carefully to the lounge, my Darling had just arrived. They exchanged warm greetings, while I slipped away quietly toward the lunch bar. A sweet potato curry awaited.
I never did really finish my “homework” from the earlier sessions. The question I keep returning to:
“How do I feel?”
The honest answer?
“I think I’m okay, but I don’t really know myself.
I know how Mr U feels—
I just don’t know how I feel.”
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On to practicalities.
The painkillers are helping. The tiredness is easing, even with poor sleep. But the Carboplatin ready-mix in my bowels is something else.
How can I have diarrhoea one day… and blueberry poo the next?
I sympathise with all of us on this chemotherapy rollercoaster.
Keep your seatbelts fastened.
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I’ve nearly run out of tinzaparin. So the advocacy trail starts again: emails to the GP, the specialist nurse, the pharmacist, the far-away oncologist—whoever holds the prescribing pen.
Wish me luck 
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Things will settle down, won’t they?
The bus is running smoothly for now, no major bumps. But My Darling needs more cuddles. I’ve been lax lately.
I love you so much.
And lastly…
Remember to take time to love yourself today.
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