Post 114: Nurse Darling, take a bow.
After nearly a week of serious pain, I think we’re now getting on top of it.
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A meaningful smile is such a little thing, but in reality, such a hard thing to maintain when you’re in pain.
So if I told you I was smiling more this afternoon, you’ll understand that I’m finally improving—with the help of the team.
Nurse Darling made me overnight oats for breakfast, covered in sliced strawberries and blueberries—a tasty treat that might even help the bowel transits now they’ve slowed to a standstill.
The cancer care nurse says: “Keep taking the Laxido because the morphine will make your constipation worse.”
Worse?!
How can it be worse?
My bowel is on its summer holiday, and I’m on my own on that front.
Nurse Darling says: “Twice a day from now on,” referring to the puce powders that are orange-flavoured but just make me feel yucky.
But if the Nurse says so, I’ll oblige. Anything to get things moving.
My Darling’s been doing everything since I’ve been disabled lately, and the sunflowers and Mr Vicious are thriving without my care.
This brings to mind the time when I won’t be here—in a strangely peaceful way—and reminds me that I must get on with some financial and practical training.
She’ll need to know how things work once I’m gone—gone to do heavenly sudokus with the angels, ha-ha… or perhaps messing around in the bilges of the underworld. Who knows?
But seriously, I must get her up to speed.
How to live after a controlling husband disappears and leaves her to take care of everything.
It’s on my list. Number one, actually.
I should stop thinking about it and start teaching.
Hey—this attitude I have today is way better than yesterday.
Must be because I’m feeling less awful.
As the day passed, I kept on top of the pill schedule, and Nurse Darling was on morphine duty. Every five hours, she decided and noted the dose in a little red wire-bound pad, just so we’d know exactly how much I’d had.
I’m very cautious about this strong, scary fluid—the stuff of nightmares and drug-infused fact and fiction—so I didn’t want to underdose, overdose, or get dependent if I could help it.
Yes, I’m overthinking again. But these are strange new times: chemical dependency for illness and side effects. It’s a worrying chapter.
However, it’s all for my better health, so I really must embrace the new me—and the drugs that help me so much.
Nurse Darling was, as ever, attending to my every whim and watching me like a hawk in case I needed something—or had forgotten something.
I sat more comfortably in the rocker, and she in the blue sofa in front of me, as we watched the dramas we love so much.
I was a bit sleepy, struggling to keep my eyes open—though I think I got away with it, being partially hidden from view.
Every now and then, she’d ask if I wanted anything. I didn’t.
But I could see I was wearing her out. Her eyes weren’t as bright as usual—and the reason is me.
Perhaps I can’t do much about it, but I feel bad about the increased workload I’ve placed on her.
She chooses to help me, yes—but I’d love her to have a few days off to recharge, without the continual worry of me in the back of her mind.
Tomorrow is Friday—her usual day out—and I dearly want that to happen.
To meet up with the crowd at the café, and especially to have some one-to-one with Ms S.
It’s just what she needs. Time away from the house, and from me.
To make that happen, I’ll have to be on best behaviour—and also genuinely on the mend.
I can do both.
Both are happening.
So I look forward to missing her for a few hours while she stretches her little legs.
As for today, cancelling the dentist and postponing my American friend’s visit were wise moves, even though both were important in their own way.
But with little to do, there’s little to say.
Little Bro called from a quarry in Cornwall, where his entire in-law family are staying for a week’s holiday.
I brought him up to date with the pain control (or lack of it), and he sounded down—on my behalf.
I really must ease back sometimes on the ugly truth to spare people’s sympathy and empathy levels.
I forget that it upsets my family as much as it hurts me.
I’m all for truth, and telling it as it is—but do I need to do that all the time?
Feeling poorly doesn’t give me the right to pour red-hot venom onto the people who care about me the most.
It’s easy to forget that the thought of pain—for others—is imagined pain, which could be worse than what I actually feel.
There are no gauges of pain that adequately explain how you feel.
I doubt a pain-o-meter will ever be invented… but if it were, would that be good?
This week has been a total washout—but I see light at the end of the tunnel.
Next week, I hope to be gadding about with my usual energy and interest, visiting places that distract us from my past frailties.
I’m looking forward, too, to the scan results.
I know they’ll be okay.
So I’m confident that chemo next Thursday will go ahead as planned.
Nurse Darling will be able to hug me more tightly next week, and her warm healing hands can hold mine as we enjoy stepping out for days away—wherever we go.
I’m on the up.
The drugs will work.
I feel the worst is over.
I’m going to smile more tomorrow.
The Bus is taking me forward toward Cycle Four and the second half of treatment, at last.
I’m ready, and I’m comfortable with that.
The weather report is for sunshine tomorrow.
I’ll have a nice day.
My Darling Nurse will have a nice day.
You have a nice day too.
P.S.
The masked auxiliary is my Darling during those COVID times.
Our wonderful friend painted her in all her finery, and the image reminds me of how proud I was of her—and of all NHS staff—during that moment in modern history we’d all prefer never happened.
Thank you, NHS.
