Post 149: Brain-fog and tiredness on boring day 3.
The chemo conveyor belt is a loop of misery and repetition, with barely a pause to contemplate what’s really happening to you.
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With nothing much to do but work my way down the list of drugs and try to keep out of trouble, the day outside — dark skies, heavy showers — set the forecast for me: dull, with little chance of improvement.
The blues I bump into from time to time usually have the backdrop of the usual family and friend worries, plus the nagging thoughts about work (good and bad). But the first few days after chemo are a different beast — harder to explain. There’s the extra tiredness, and that’s the key to the misery. The less energy I have, the less interest I take in anything, and my brain feels broken, stuck in first gear.
Where did yesterday’s optimism and drive vanish to? Yesterday I was really on it, relatively happy, even active — in my mind at least. Today it’s all grey.
The dentist didn’t call me back, so I left another voicemail to postpone the hygienist. £80 I don’t really need to spend next week. A quick shine on my teeth — only my wife and the clinicians will ever see them while I lumber around the cancer-and-chemo hokey-cokey — feels like a waste. Do I truly need to get my old-life-stained molars polished?
There was a time when red wine and curries left their mark on my teeth, but that was then. I’ll still eat the curries, but I don’t know when the next glass of wine will be.
My head feels jammed. The TV is on but I’m not following it, the sudoku is half-finished — or half-started — and that’s about as much as my brain can manage. So I keep the remotes, my mobile, and my pint glass of tap water close at hand, and let myself drift into nothing.
My Darling wants to watch something I can’t face, so after a few minutes of trying to tolerate the East-Enders misery I gave up, made my excuses, and shuffled upstairs. Chemo day three is officially on course for a very restful one.
I try to lift my spirits with the thought of Saturday’s trip to Goodwood. My period attire is still hanging in the wardrobe, waiting to be dusted off, but that can wait. A quick look at the Hampshire forecast doesn’t help — not promising at all. Another downpour drums on the leaky conservatory roof just below our bedroom window. Too late for the summer plants, but at least the solar panels are getting a wash. That’s something.
My eyes are half-shut and I keep flicking the TV off and on as energy ebbs and returns. I’m not really following the plot of this easy drama, but at least it doesn’t strain the brain. What’s livelier is my Yahoo inbox.
Three years ago, when I signed up for the Macmillan forum — in particular the Prostate section — I used an old Yahoo address. Not for security reasons, just convenience. I hadn’t touched it in a while and thought, why not. It turned out to be a blessing: the Macmillan pings don’t swamp my main email inbox, but I still get every notification. And I do want them. That yahoo address is now basically a Macmillan-only inbox — neat, organised, and full of the best anonymous friends I’ve ever had.
Today I answered a couple of posts from new members. I hoped my replies were helpful — supportive, empathetic, the sort of messages I once needed myself. But reading and writing those replies stirred me more than I expected. The screen blurred. Tissues were required before I could continue. That’s the thing about this space: it gives me as much as I give back but it sometimes is way too raw for me.
I spent most of the day upstairs, but later came down with my empty dinner plate — or not quite empty. The smell of sausage, mash, peas and onion gravy still clung to it, a reminder of the simple food I love. My Darling spoils me every day, and what does she get in return? Worry, stress, and a husband half the time lost in his own head. Bless our other halves. They give so much, even when we’re too dulled or distracted to show how much we love them. A frightful disconnect.
I do love you, my Darling. Saranghae. xx
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My emotions were tested again later. My Darling, exhausted, went up early after another day of caring for me while carrying her own struggles. We shared a gentle hug and she disappeared to bed. A little later my phone pinged: a WhatsApp from a friend. Reading between the lines, it felt like he might be reaching out. I wondered if I was overthinking — today my mood was too empathic, too porous — but I replied anyway. I hope I didn’t overstep. I’d hate to make things worse for him. Time will tell.
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I must head to bed myself. A little oral morphine will take the edge off and let me sleep. The insipid pains of recent weeks are much more manageable now; I’m starting to forget them, to lie down and get up without torture.
If only the bowels would follow suit. Post-chemo constipation is back, the Laxido is making all the right noises but with no results yet. The daily guessing game begins: will it be today, tomorrow, or the next? Will I be all right for Saturday? What a life.
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So the bus rumbles on. My rosy cheeks look like I’ve raided my Darling’s makeup bag, and the rain still pelts onto the windows.
I’m well — that’s the main thing.
A dreary day, a dreary blog — but if you’ve read this far, thank you.
Tomorrow will be better.
