Post 209: All neatly tied in a satin bow.
“Today’s powwow.
How can I explain…
There is a need for pain-relief pills to be upped and a radiotherapy zap on the ribs where all the pain is. The pain is apparently a metastasis and the radiotherapy will get rid of some of it. A one-off Zoledronic injection will help the bone recover too.
The PSA is up 103 and sits at 360. This is going to be ignored from now on.
There is a choice of treatments: Radium R-223 or Docetaxel chemo at Brighton Hospital after the radiotherapy is over.
A: The R-223 will be 6 sessions, each 4 weeks apart (6 months in total). This is aimed at the bones only and may kill cancer cells.
B: The Docetaxel is a normal chemotherapy and will only be given to me at 50% strength. Could be up to 10 sessions, if I can take it, at three-week intervals.
We will have another meeting with the oncologist in three weeks (ish) to discuss an ongoing treatment (A or B) and perhaps find out the results from today’s MRI scan.
That’s about it. 
”
(That’s the text message friends and family got last night)
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I don’t really want to talk about it right now, but this is exactly the time I need this blog the most.
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So, fellow travellers, the reality is very different to the silky-smooth output from my oncologist’s mouth who, to be fair, had little to work with.
It’s not easy to swallow the bitterest pill, but this is the time to ponder aloud the feelings running through me.
Firstly, there’s no horrendously bad news, nor anything unexpected. In my view it was exactly as I thought it would be — and nearly the worst case scenario.
I’m not at all surprised — but obviously very disappointed.
Carboplatin was not as good as it could have been.
I’m too weak for a full dose of follow-up
chemo right now.
My choice is either Radium R-223, which is a bone pick-me-up (as far as I know), or a half-dose Docetaxel, chemo.
My hard-earned three-month rest has blown out the window and it’s replaced with a Christmas of discontent and a new year of disappointment, and the helpful arm of localish hospitals will hold me by the scruff of my neck and not let go — just like this bloody year.
End of! (for today)
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In other news.
The increasingly time-consuming WBMRI scan (whole body MRI), which initially was 50 mins, had increased to a crippling 1 hr 10 minutes last time, but yesterday afternoon’s disaster was 1 hr 30 mins and more like torture. I tried to get off near the end — I was so uncomfortable.
This is legalised torture!
It’s disgusting that the nurses placing me in my torture bed were not forced to say how long it was going to be. If they did, I would have set my alarm to 1 hr 10 and said I’m getting off then.
That quite long enough.
What the bloody hell were they doing? I was getting anxious and in pain, but I realise the importance of this scan (if it shows anything? If it’s compared to the other two I’ve had this summer?). I’m not an awkward patient, but I’m now peed right off.
I’ve now got more back and neck pain to go with everything else, and if anyone thinks they’d have the nerve to stop the process mid-cycle, I think you’re a better man than me.
In fact I did press the button to alarm the staff but I was told without stopping the machine, that “there was only two minutes to go” — not how are you, or how can we help you, or what the problem! Bloody disgusting.
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I’ve got too much to digest and will never allow a scan to be conducted on an already busy day. Again, my fault — you don’t have to tell me.
I just wish the MRI will show clearly what’s going on with my rib, because I’m not convinced yet that the radiotherapy will touch the pain I’m in.
Good night. Sleep tight.
