Post 154: One small thing can send me into orbit.
But first…
I was thinking about leaving (not that leaving—the big leave), and I sketched out a line or two — because I could:
I want you knowing I still do care
Even when I’m not really there
It’s not because I’ve been too bad
My time is up for all we had
I said goodbye so many times
There’s lately been so many signs
But I can’t find the words to say
My body’s shot — I’ve gone away
Holding both your shaking hands
To try to help you understand
I must go first — I’ll lead the way
I’d rather wait, I’d rather stay.
———
For me, there’s nothing like a bit of overthinking — and today is a clear case of why I shouldn’t.
It started with an innocent email and the response shot me into space. Why am I so jumpy? I don’t know — perhaps it’s the chemo…
Here we go again…
———
We all want answers but we don’t always get them, that’s for sure. But when we do get an answer, why do I question the living daylights out of it?
So the day ahead of me was going to be a lazy day. The hygienist and boiler service were deferred so I could watch TV all day — but after yesterday’s accident I had better not let Mr Vicious onto my lap.
I didn’t mention it before because, firstly, there was no need, and secondly I was a little embarrassed — but it happened so quickly and I really didn’t deserve it.
A simple case of mistaken identity caused blood to congeal on the back of my right hand in a thousand places in a split second. I was minding my own business, multitasking with the TV and my mobile phone, when he stood up to have a good old scratch. As he stood on all fours his hold on my trousers became more aggressive and all the claws came out to stabilise this necessary and pleasurable act while I was about to be covered in hairs, obviously.
But while he settled his paws in my legs with talons aplenty I became so uncomfortable I put the mobile in my left hand so I could pick him up and release the pain from the claws on my legs… This partially worked but caused another problem.
In an instant I became world enemy number one and every sharp implement at his disposal was dug into my right hand that had innocently started to pick him up. Teeth, claws, fur and blood either latched on or leached out for a horrible but short moment as I screamed in pain while my Darling shouted firmly across the room, “leave him alone — he didn’t mean to…”.
Bloody cat!
He was unceremoniously expelled from the room and house for a cool-down once I had untangled myself from him and, more importantly, started some much-needed first aid on my own hand and wrist, now that I could see the damage.
The speed of Mr V is truly amazing and is the reason why my Darling doesn’t pick him up — the only contact she has with him is to sneakily give him the pills every other day, for his allergies or to feed him. Only I, Dr Do-very-little, am stupid enough to cuddle up to him.
That was yesterday and the scars are still too raw for me to forgive him yet — maybe tomorrow he will return to my lap? Or maybe not.
———
So, back to the reply to that email. The one answer that sent me into a spin — which was only meant to be a simple, courteous update after the blood infusion and the weekend’s symptoms and worries to my lovely and helpful cancer specialist nurse, Ms N.
It’s normal for me to be overthinking (as you all know by now) and an update is a regular occurrence to family or the professionals I have good relationships with. In my defence, the infusion was a first for me so I guess I had every right to tell Ms N how I was after a few days had gone by.
In fact, apart from the mental side of the blood transfusion, I was in great shape. I’m very glad of the effort someone went to in donating their blood to the national bank which helps so many people without fanfare or praise — it has benefited my body so much physically — but I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that someone else’s blood is coursing around my body just now. I’m honestly very grateful, but it’s just a bit weird for now.
———
The update was on the whole upbeat and positive, with a new reference to a breast pain that I’ve been worried about for the last two or three weeks. It’s probably nothing but it needs mentioning. The best bit is that this Thursday we’ll have a face-to-face with Dr S and Ms N where I’ll be able to get a physical check, just in case. There’s no lump — it’s just pains, especially late at night, around or under my left nipple that come and go whenever they please.
But apart from that one new issue, everything else I’ve had pain with lately has stabilised and is easily dealt with by the pills I’ve been prescribed recently — which I mentioned in the email to balance this weekly missive.
But the reply was simply (too simply): “it’s chemo that causes that,” “that’s a side effect of the chemo,” “we could lower the dose next time”…
I’m beginning to think that the excuse for everything from now onwards is the chemo. It bothers me because it can’t be right. The cancer is the cause of most of my problems and the side effects of the meds are going to be temporary while — and shortly after — the treatments end. However, I can feel the reasoning “it’s chemo that’s caused that” becoming the standard response, and I really don’t think chemo is the real reason for everything bad that happens to me.
———
As I travel along cancer’s stoney path I realise there’s an element of guesswork and experimenting in all my treatments. I get that — I’m happy to be a guinea pig, squeak squeak. The responses I’ve had in my three years of experience have been positive and, for now, useful. But I’m fed up with chemo being blamed for everything.
I’m moaning about something I can’t change — and does it even matter anyway?
My tiredness this week is the single worst problem, followed closely by constipation. That there’s not much to be worried about is something to be happy about, I guess. Perhaps it’s just me being silly. Me being selfish and jealous in equal measure.
The cat hates me, the chemo is one infusion away from disappearing from my horizon, I have a health and welfare meeting at work this week, my Darling wants a new bathroom and I’ve asked a professional to come and chat with her, I’m tired of being tired and tired of having constipation — but I stay on the bus. The bus that’s nearing the end of its travels with me; travels I have not enjoyed much but have surely made some kind of positive difference.
Perhaps I should start using chemo as the answer to all my questions.
Chemo is the answer — what is the question?
