Post 119: Sphincter Red Eye Causing Cancellations and Consternation.
I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
———
After two days of diarrhoea, I’ve cancelled today’s trip to the seaside for a memorial lunch honouring a dear old lady. I’ve got to be fit for Thursday’s Carboplatin chemo, and right now, I really can’t be more than 10 steps away from a loo.
Disappointing, to say the least — especially as it extends my dull, bed-bound life for another day. Plus, it means missing a chance to see the progress on our youngest and his fiancée’s home, in the next town eastwards,for a catchup.
Cycle three’s life-chemo balance has been shocking. I’ve managed two outings in 21 days.
So, this morning, I figured I’d have to do something to stop the squits and reached for the loperamide pills they gave me during the first cycle in the day ward.
I showered, buzzed off to the GP surgery for the pre-chemo blood test, and came back hungry. A cautious choice: toast and marmalade.
But not long after, I was lunging for the downstairs loo as the now-familiar spatter struck again. Second day running — literally. Unusual, and worrying.
Another pill. Another sandwich. Another stomach twist. Now my poor sphincter’s glowing red. Ouch!
I tried more toast because My Darling was worried I hadn’t eaten enough — I needed to keep my strength up. But that ended the same way.
By 7:30pm, I was on the phone to 111. After a quick assessment, I was booked back into my favourite overnight getaway — the hospital. Oh joy. What will the oncology team make of all this?
———
I was already a bit low after my call with Dr S earlier.
Some spinal lesions have improved — that’s the good news — but those in the pelvis haven’t. During the call, I didn’t feel like myself. My Darling was still resting upstairs (she’s had a rough time lately, but her GP has finally found a new pill regime that’s helping — thank goodness).
Dr S was light and breezy, as always. She asked how I was managing, and in response to my sleep-heavy routine, suggested we reduce the Carboplatin dose to 80% to lessen the knockout effect.
I wasn’t keen on that.
Halfway through treatment, an “indifferent” scan, and we reduce the dose? Didn’t feel right. I told her to keep going at full tilt — this cancer’s had it easy enough so far.
We chatted about the weird constipation cycle I’m on (three days of nothing, then boom — diarrhoea). She recommended adding Senna to the Laxido, and bumping up my gabapentin dose with one more pill at night.
I can live with that.
That was about it. No disasters, but also no stand-out wins. I didn’t ask much — that’s on me. Still, I later emailed the cancer nurse to ask for a detailed scan report so I can see what progress (if any) is actually happening.
No reply yet.
———
So off we went to the hospital.
We sat masked up in the waiting area, trying to set an example (the only ones doing so). Pretty quickly we were called to Room 22 — one with a real door, no blue curtain this time.
Bloods were taken, and I was told they needed a stool sample too — and that I’d need a PR exam.
“What’s that?” I asked, naively.
The nurse walked away, smiling… and flashed me the bird.
Ah. Got it. Oh no. Not again.
But if they wanted a sample, my sore, inflamed backside was going to need convincing. And stress doesn’t help that.
The sandwich lady came by. I agreed to something brown and veggie in the hope it might stir things up again.
Then in came the commode. Pride took the night off.
And so it was: I produced not one, but a whole series of samples, thanks to the very tasty coronation chickpea on brown.
We waited. And waited.
Bloods came back fine. The doctor said he wasn’t too concerned. The stool test would determine if this was infectious gastroenteritis or something similar. If so, I’d get a call and start antibiotics.
That was enough for now. So we left. After running out of Eye-Spy options in our cubicle and waiting till 2:30am, we finally headed home.
Still no firm idea what caused the bleeding, but we’re hoping to hear more today.
———
But now the question:
Will this delay chemo?
Who decides that?
Why won’t this bloody un-merry-go-round stop?
I was already fed up after the oncology call. I’m doubly fed up with the relentless diarrhoea. It’s scary seeing blood in the bowl. I’m tired — exhausted — by this endless stream of side issues.
But…
Tomorrow (well, today now) is going to be a better day.
I don’t know how, but it will be.
Take it easy. And I hope your day is better than mine.
