Post 148: Rosy cheeks and rest.
Yesterday my mental balance was broken, but today I was steady and uplifted.
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You can’t really tell how you are until you’ve stood up and had a good scratch. Apart from the right shoulder rotator-cuff ache (if I lift my arm too high when dressing), I felt a bit like Baloo the bear from The Jungle Book — a big smile spreading across my face with those first heavenly rubs that tell you your pain’s at bay.
What a great start.
Reaching for the 8 o’clock pills and syringe, I did the usual gulping down of the necessary drugs. After chemo, days two to four always mean extra steroids — but they need food first. Breakfast for me is really just a vehicle for pills, so a Weetabix wallowing in blue-top milk, pinged for one minute, does the trick. Once that’s down, I count out the half-hour until I can take the final four steroids.
These little lifesavers help my body cope with the dreaded poison. They do their job, but the comical consequence is that they make me look like a Christmas elf, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed. My Darling says I look like Buddy from the classic festive film I love so much. Give it a few more days and I’ll be ready to head back from the North Pole.
Self-advocacy is a daily grind. Today was no different: I settled in my favourite chair, admin head on, determined. That lasted all of five minutes before I gave in to the lure of a new K-drama — soothing, distracting, far better for my sore brain-cells than fretting while waiting for the call from the infusion suite. I need a blood transfusion now, a rescue for my bewildered bone marrow being stripped by the cancer and cancer-killing drugs. Necessary, yes, but another step down the prostate cancer stairway of doom — at least in my eyes. Still, nothing was going to break me today. The transfusion will give me more oxygen, more life. Maybe even make me feel like a new man. (I hope my Darling won’t mind, ha-ha.) my theoretical ponytail tied back, I was ready for some graft.
My Darling came down looking a little ropey (I didn’t tell her that, of course). Another worry headache, another wave of tiredness. She’d seen the doctor yesterday before my chemo, and they’ve booked her for a full blood count in a couple of weeks. Sensibly, he gave her that space because she mentioned Kev’s death — time to grieve before tests. I’m not too worried, but of course I am worried.
This weekend marks the “month’s mass,” and my Darling is leaning towards going to church here, to join in spiritually with the family in Ireland — together in grief though apart in distance. She didn’t fly over because of my chemo, but I’ll stand beside her in the pews so she isn’t alone. Life is full of challenges, and somehow we stumble through them in our own way.
I’ve also been keeping in touch with Geety, Kev’s widow (oh, how final that word sounds, widow). Little or long updates from my rocking chair. It helps me as much as it helps her. Last week I signed off a message cheekily as “little Bro,” and it’s stuck. Better than a full stop — lighter, friendlier, with an invisible smile. Our back-and-forth messages about daily chores, medical care, and memories of Kev’s silliness fills some of the gap he’s left. I think it’s keeping us both sane.
Back in my “admin room,” not much was happening, so my Darling went shopping and off to see her bestie for a much-needed chat. I sloped upstairs with my notepad, the landline, and mobile, and got comfy in bed. I soon lost myself in the K-drama — until the mobile rang. It stopped before I could answer. An 0300 number. I muttered at their impatience and went back to the TV. A few minutes later it dawned on me: 0300 is a hospital number.
I called back, hoping it wasn’t some smug cold caller. A harassed-sounding man told me he’d been inviting me in for a transfusion on the 20th of September. Nearly two weeks away! “Oh,” I gasped. “But I don’t know if it’s urgent — I’m still on chemo.”
He reassured me, said the prescription didn’t even say how many units, and that he’d email the Day Unit for clarity.
Not a great start.
My Darling swung back briefly, made me a sausage sandwich (I could have made it myself, but didn’t), then headed out again. I didn’t complain — being spoiled feels good sometimes.
I emailed my cancer nurse to keep her in the loop, tacking on a question about a scary new lab number I’d seen: my serum ferritin at 1227. She replied:
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I have got you booked in on the Medical Day Unit in Eastbourne for a 2-unit transfusion on Monday 15th Sept. That’s the earliest they can do it but better than the 20th.
They’ll contact you with a time. They’ll organise the pre-transfusion bloods.
I’ll ask Dr S on Thursday about your ferritin and email you back with the results.
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Oh no! Monday. But Monday I had the hygienist booked early, and the boiler service at 11 a.m. I guessed the transfusion would take all morning. Drat and double drat. So I cancelled the dentist, called a pal to babysit the house for the boiler man, and thought it was all sorted.
Until… another call a few hours later. “We need you at 08:30 this Friday the 12th.” Pre-bloods, wait, then the first of two three-hour transfusions starting 10:30. Done by 16:30.
Friday, not Monday. Oh well. At least it’s sooner. I undid the house-sitting arrangement and still wait on the dentist’s reply.
At least I’ll feel better sooner. That’s a plus.
Phew.
In the middle of all this, I also set up another occupational health review at work and — here’s the big one — I chose a return-to-work date: November 10th, after our two weeks’ annual leave for my Darling’s birthday. That feels momentous. My eldest thinks it’s a bad idea, but for me it’s about clawing back some normality. And normality is everything when you’re on this rocky prostate path.
Later, big Sis dropped in, having texted earlier from the shops asking if I wanted anything. “Yes,” I’d replied. “Sarson’s hot and spicy pickled onions, please.” She turned up with not only those, but amore goodies. Magic. We shared a cuppa and Fox’s ginger cookies, and a long, gentle hug before she went.
As she left, I saw a neighbour across the road getting into her car. Something nudged me to wander over. We hadn’t seen each other in days. I asked how she was (twice), and she asked about me too. Just a quiet, honest chat between two patients, each carrying their own load. I think we both felt lighter after.
When my Darling came home, I bawled telling her about it. The release caught me off guard. She held me while I cried, and later we sat quietly watching TV, both lost in thought, both a little calmer.
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I remain positive and strong.
The bus is rolling the right way.
I can’t wait for Saturday at the Goodwood Revival — the best.
My chest aches are slowly receding, and I’m only needing extra oral morphine at night to get into bed comfortably. Small mercies, but powerful ones.
I’m in recovery, and on the up.
