Post 157: Dr S and I have a frank and friendly chat — then a family ride out.
In the end, it’s great to know you can chat about anything you like and perhaps get your expectations out for a dust-off.
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Last night was memorable, but for all the wrong reasons.
Waking up beside my Darling is a wonderful start to the day. I’m usually the first to rise (no puns intended), and this morning was no exception.
“Morning,” I said. But before I could utter anything more, she started on me in a mean and unexpected way.
“What on earth was up with you last night?” she boomed in my ear.
“Last night? What about last night?”
The penny was still stuck in the slot, a long way from dropping, and my recollection wasn’t triggered yet. I searched my mind for clues to the dastardly deed I had apparently committed. Nothing. What had gone so badly wrong that I couldn’t even remember? Old age creeping in?
I could just about recall a dream about pains in my back, treated with oral morphine — but that was a dream, wasn’t it?
Not wanting the atmosphere to grow, I braved a question. My Darling’s reply was remarkable: I’d twice moaned and groaned during the night and become a “chattering lunatic” while suffering several big back pains.
What I thought was a dreamy nightmare was in fact a shared memory — escalating pain I’ve had before, though usually only as a precursor to something worse later. Oh craaaaap.
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No time to dwell on this. After the chat with Dr S there would be time enough. For now, I buried it and got myself ready for a trip to my hometown, where I’d check some chemo and cancer details while I was still brave enough.
Our youngest arrived on time for a quick pre-chat about the meeting “agenda,” if you could call it that. Then off we went exchanging stories along the way - house renovations and pain relief, what else would they be about.
I still had no clear memories of waking my Darling to administer morphine twice last night, nor did I feel any back pain now that might hint at what I went through - or didn’t go through. Who knows?
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On the way back I suggested we stop for a bite at a pub. I don’t get out much, so it’s nice to stretch and “big-up” any outing — even a mundane clinical meeting.
We pulled into a refurbished pub, none of us having been there before, and ordered food and drinks while we reflected on the meeting.
The feeling I carried away was one of genuine care. Dr S seemed to understand me better now and be able to look after me more comprehensively.
Among other things, I had asked about another round of chemotherapy in the future — its benefits versus the disadvantages. I hadn’t meant to raise it, but it just slipped out. Her response was reassuring: “It’s your choice after all.”
My head was clear and my mind all but made up. I said I might not want to go through another six months of what we’ve just endured. I’d like a break, time to recover, a spell of something like normality. If I said no to a future round of chemo, what would happen?
That’s where the empathy showed. “It’s up to you, Mr U,” she said. “And there’s always radiotherapy if needed.”
This wasn’t off the back of a new prognosis. Don’t fret — I still have years to live and enjoy life. It was simply me exploring what it would mean to say no next time.
In fact, Dr S had already asked if I might prefer not to have the last, sixth Carboplatin in two weeks’ time. Again, “It’s up to you.”
I accepted the last chemo willingly — on the proviso that the PSA is still trending down (Let’s hope it’s down a lot).
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By the time we’d shared dinner and were too full for sweets, I started to feel rib aches again. The throbbing pain across my chest was back. Not a good sign.
So we headed home, but I still had to fulfil a promise to my youngest when we got there, regarding an old car and some driver training.
This very week I’d put him (our youngest) on the insurance for my Volvo Amazon — a car twice his age, built to last forever. He was thrilled. The plan was to take it out after the school rush had died back to a trickle.
While we waited, I showed him around: under the bonnet, along the dash. We charged the battery, pumped the tyres, then headed out to pick up my prescriptions and some shopping into town.
Our youngest was delighted with himself, a great chauffeur to boot. Provisions stowed, we headed home. That’s when I finally admitted to my Darling that the pain was really really back. “Too late now!”, “If you don’t keep up with the pain, you’ll suffer,” came her wise words, along with a dressing-down for leaving it so long to admit the problem. Whoops.
Later, having melted into the comfy chair, I still needed more pain relief catching up. Morphine was added to the day’s list of drugs — a poor attempt to chase the pain that had escalated badly due to my lack of honesty.
By then, I didn’t care much about anything except constipation at one end and pain at the other, all while a neurological pulsing in my ribs promised another long uncomfortable night.
To say it was terrible is an understatement. Torture is closer.
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I’d like to apologise for today’s haphazard and confusing blog. It’s taken me all day to write, through pain and distraction, but I didn’t want to skip it.
I’m full of pain relief now and hoping for better day tomorrow.
Love and best wishes.
