Post 147: PSA down 112 but I need transfusion.
I had brilliant news to start the day so why was I unbelievably sad?
———
The journey to the local hospital was when I felt it most.
It was a warm and sunny autumn morning, and I chose to drive.
I’d already had the great news about my PSA dropping 112 points, down to 352. The Day Unit said I was all clear for the Carbo today: see you soon.
I had some admin to sort out before heading to the hospital. My “sick note” for work needed extending. First hurdle: even though the Anima online triage system is fantastic, the GP surgery seems to have an on-off-switch. Half the time, if you don’t log in by six a.m., there are no slots left and you have to wait until the next day. That means everyone who’d prefer not to sit in a phone queue for the receptionist, ends up… sitting in a phone queue anyway. I was caller number ten, so I picked option 1 and waited 10–15 minutes to get the call back and the sick note instigated. Then we could finally set off.
At the hospital car park we went to the attendant’s cabin, just by the smokers’ benches, and breathed in the choking clouds of patients and pals second hand air from their morning fix. Maybe one day smoking will truly be frowned upon. Anyway, the free annual parking pass was written out for us — the fourth one now. It was one of the few good things they gave me at my first oncology meeting. Everything else that day was bad, obviously, but still — a milestone however you look at it. Three years of prostate cancer down.
We passed the puffers still smoking and headed inside. I can’t seem to walk very fast these days, and when my Darling starts to drift ahead of me in busy corridors, I always think of that line in A Christmas Carol when Mrs. Cratchit recalls Bob’s slower pace: “He seems to be walking much slower lately.” His slower walk wasn’t from illness (like me) but from sadness — spoiler alert — after the “death” of Tiny Tim.
I can’t help my slower pace. My legs just don’t move the way they used to. It gets me down, though once upon a time I ran in Fun-Runs, so I’ve not always been inactive. There’s a time for every season.
At the Day Unit I was shown to a recliner chair in C Bay — quiet, but busy. Thankfully the lady with loud verbal diarrhoea from a previous visit wasn’t there. Hurrah!
The nurse assigned to me put a warm pad on my wrist and hand to coax up the veins — a first for me, and heavenly. I may ask for it again, just because I can. Ha-ha! But it did the job, and soon I was hooked up to the usual bag of sugar and poison to make me well. A real contradiction in terms, that.
Three hours in all, start to finish, during which my Darling took a well-earned break from me to meet up with her best work buddy for a long coffee, and came back full of chatter. While she was gone, I had time alone with my thoughts.
That’s when I revisited the mood I’d felt after hearing about the PSA drop. Why was I disappointed — no, angry? Yes, it’s great news, but I dearly want an end to this bloody chemo and all it’s done to me since mid April. I’m tired of the checks, the meetings, the contradictions. Up, down, up again. The reality is a poor quality of life even with chemo, so the only things on my side are positivity and luck.
Last month the PSA only fell 29, and I was so disappointed. I’d said then it should be over 100 each time if the Carbo’s working. Well, today that’s exactly what happened — and yet, driving to the hospital, I was silent. My Darling asked me halfway there if I was okay. I said I was. But I think she saw the watery eyes staring at the busy road. She asked no more.
So a good-bad day was done, and we came home to a hungry Mr. Vicious, trying to blag an early dinner. He settled on my lap instead, claws and all. I grumble, but I do appreciate his cat-love.
———
Physically I feel okay, except for the pain on the north side of my left wrist where the Carbo went in. Next time I’ll ask them to aim elsewhere.
For now, I’m back on the bus with a bit more positivity thanks to the PSA drop. Another meeting with Dr S on the 18th — my youngest has already said he’ll come again, which will help both my Darling and me.
Tomorrow the steroids begin, with the red cheeks and constipation. Oh joy.
My Darling and the family are happy, and I should be too. On the whole, I am. But my brain hasn’t told my gut.
Happy days ahead. Chin up, Mr U.
PS: The bad news today — my blood counts are low. Another blood test was taken, and it looks like I’ll need a transfusion. First ever. Another new experience to “enjoy.”
I await a call into the infusion suite.
Mr U, over and out.
