Post 112: Treadmill set-up & morphine day one
I feel like my life has reduced to watching life go by while I sit in pain.
———
After the new-usual struggle out of bed and the careful descent downstairs to my comfy rocker, I puzzled away at a sudoku and waited patiently for the clock to tell me it was time for all the drugs I now need to start my engines.
The last few days have been tiresome with back pain, but the cancer care nurse has been attentive and proactive—checking I’m okay and that the team aren’t missing something that might help.
The communication is mostly by email, but the amount of messages was far beyond the norm, and that alone lit up my happy button. A small positive: knowing they really are doing all they can.
But with the positives come the inevitable negatives.
I got a call from the oncology appointments team telling me that the scheduled telephone call this Thursday—to discuss my MRI scan and treatment—was being pushed back to the following Tuesday.
That’s a bummer.
I could read a lot into that. But it’s all negative.
So I’ll just park that here.
The day had started badly, but with my Darling still upstairs sleeping, not all was gloom. In fact, I cheered myself up with a thick slice of lemon drizzle cake - my go-to magic cure when I’m temporarily down - for breakfast.
It worked. Though I felt mildly guilty about its health merits (which are none), the sticky-sweet gratification won out. Yummy.
I called the pharmacies to see if the new meds were ready. They were—all of them.
Help was officially on the way, and the oral morphine felt like it might be a game-changer.
Spoiler: it wasn’t the miracle I’d hoped for.
But apparently, I looked better. More on that in a bit.
Our youngest, G, was coming over with his fiancée (also G), and we’d get a chance to catch up on the building-site-turned-home they’re still working on. The big extension is nearly done, but—as always—snags are slowing them down.
As my Darling fluttered around me, concerned and stressed by the escalating pain I was in, she told me to retire to bed for a few hours before the kids arrived.
I was happy to oblige—until it ended in tears.
While she headed out to grab some shopping and collect the prescriptions, I tried to make myself comfy.
I had wriggled into a decent, relatively pain-free laying position and tried to relax.
But relaxing while your back is plotting discomfort isn’t easy.
Still—I must’ve dozed off, because I woke to a call from an unknown number.
I’d completely forgotten about the appointment call from the faraway teaching hospital.
I hastily sat up—or tried to.
The shriek I let out down the line startled the caller and triggered a wave of agony that stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon.
The call was about a research trial for prostate cancer patients with the BRCA2 mutation—something I’d signed up to. But it ended quickly due to my distressed state.
By the time my Darling returned from town, all thoughts of rest were gone.
The visitors were nearly here.
She found a 25ml measuring cup and poured 5ml of morphine into it, which I drank with glee—hoping for that miracle: a pain-free catch-up with G & G.
But nothing happened. No relief. I was a mess—a pile of snotty, salty tissues beside me, my back and shoulders in full revolt.
Then came a knock at the door.
Yes, I was a mess.
But I got a light hug from both Gs as they stepped in and quietly weighed up the situation—my red eyes giving plenty away.
The afternoon rolled on with me anchored in my Ikea rocker - the only place I can sit relatively comfortably.
Our guests gave me their full attention. We chatted about more than just pain and building chaos: house valuations, moving plans, and what kind of rescue dog they want to adopt once the builders leave and their home becomes a haven for a new four-legged member of the family.
(You can’t have everything but I’m really looking forward to meeting their new pup someday soon.)
As time passed, I found it easier to sit. Everyone said I looked better.
Maybe the morphine was doing something—I didn’t argue.
The curry went down a treat, followed by black forest trifle.
The conversation flowed and after the clean-up, we had a job for young G to help us with.
My Darling laid down the rules:
I was to sit still, guide with words only, and not touch anything—not the parts, not the loft ladder, not the tools.
I found this nearly impossible.
The task? Reassembling the treadmill, long stored in the conservatory, so we could get some rainy-day exercise indoors.
It’s ideal—I can step off it the moment I’m tired, without the guilt of cutting a walk short in public.
A win-win, really.
I wasn’t allowed to lift a finger and was reminded a hundred times to stay put.
“Just tell G where to look, and stay away from the construction site,” my Darling repeated when I got too close.
I felt completely inept. Wrapped in cotton wool.
Like Sir Stephen Hawking might have been more helpful than me.
It’s hard to change a lifetime habit of doing when all you’re allowed to do is watch. Drat and double drat!
(as Dick Dastardly used to say in Wacky Races or Stop That Pigeon).
I’m not ready to give up on everything.
But I know this is serious, and debilitating.
I just hope it’s also temporary.
Young G did a cracking job with the treadmill.
He even tested it at full sprint—I’ve never seen anyone run so fast on the thing.
It was oiled, set up, and passed fit for service.
Now the real test: will we use it… or will it become a dusty clothes horse?
———
A lovely evening passed too quickly.
After the Gs left with a bag of leftover food for tomorrow’s dinner, I headed up to bed and had another dose of morphine.
I can’t moan too much—I did get some sleep.
But the pain was there to greet me in the dead of night, and honestly, it’s not getting any better.
One of the emails from the cancer nurse mentioned checking the scan for spinal compression or nerve impingement.
That came back negative—good news.
But it doesn’t explain why I’m so much pain.
Also, if they can see the spine, surely they’ve seen the rest of the scan?
I’ll ask about that tomorrow.
Are they comparing my last two WBMRI scans for progression? Or regression?
Will I ever relax and let the experts do their thing?
Or will I always need constant reassurance that they’re thinking ahead?
It’s exhausting being me.
I’m my own worst enemy.
Self-advocacy is my new way of life—and I doubt I’ll ever stop pushing for answers.
———
I’m worried about the escalating pain.
The team are helping—but we still don’t know much.
The Bus is still rumbling on its merry way.
I’m on it, wondering if I might have to get off and hop onto another.
To hop-on or hop-off is still the big question.
