Post 22: Head in a Spin
Vital statistics:
Temp: 36.1 
BP: 119/80/56
Weight: back on the Laxido
Hair: no change
Anything else? Anxious
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I need time to tie all the loose threads of the last seven days into a secure knot.
But how?
I’m lying here in bed, a little tired of everything after this morning’s appointment with my oncology consultant. My head’s in a spin, and it aches. The more I try to explain my worries and thoughts to My Darling, the more I circle round the same facts—and don’t know where to stop.
It’s another dreaded cycle.
I’d liken the consultant today to a double glazing salesperson sealing another deal. Very protective of the treatment plan I agreed to, and pleading—using all the tools of her trade—for me to carry on regardless of what’s happened.
Her first words, as My Darling and I walked in, were:
“I see you’ve had a bit of drama.”
If “drama” is a massive bilateral pulmonary embolism, then yes—obviously.
She carried on with her side of things, but when she paused for breath, I jumped in—speaking clearly, listing my issues and worries.
Neither the clots nor my heart seemed very high on her priority list, judging by the way she dismissed them—as if she were a cardiologist all of a sudden.
I explained that in the three nights since leaving hospital, my AFib has been the worst it’s ever been: eight hours the first night, ten flipping hours last night of palpitations and irregular beats.
If you don’t suffer with AFib, you won’t understand the exhaustion that follows.
So, I didn’t sleep much at all. And with the growing anxiety about this morning’s meeting, I wasn’t in the best shape. Emotionally drained from the week’s trauma (not drama, thank you very much), I broke down in tears and realised I had to do what’s best for me.
I want to know how my heart is. I want to know how my lungs are. I want an expert to explain what’s happening to me now, and when I’ll be able to get back to climbing stairs and lifting things. I want to be better—so I can restart chemo.
I want a delay to let me do this.
Let me do this.
To every want, the oncologist had a reason why I shouldn’t. I was going round in my own circles, and she was leading me round hers—another chemo cycle.
Eventually, she relented. A one-week delay was reluctantly accepted.
That gives me time to get an echocardiogram and see how my heart is.
That’s when I asked, politely, if I could get a second opinion on my treatment plan.
She immediately asked who.
I gave her a name without hesitation.
Hurrah! I stood on my own two feet and did what felt right.
We left on good terms, but it left me feeling utterly drained.
My Darling had stayed mostly quiet through the meeting, but later, during a kitchen debrief over lunch, she said:
“Don’t forget, the chemo is holding the cancer back—you can keep pushing it back forever,”
—all the while looking at me the way she always does: with love and care.
“I understand,” I replied. “But for now, my heart is the priority.”
We’re on the same page with this new plan. But sometimes it’s hard to explain how important it is to me that I rebuild my physical strength post-PE.
I’m not as fit.
I’m not as able.
I’m wound tight.
I’m sleep-deprived and anxious.
She knows—I know she does.
But it’s hard to say out loud how much I need to be stronger before the chemo resumes.
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By mid-afternoon, I’d settled a bit. A Magnum ice cream (other ice-creams are available) helped.
I contacted my GP to escalate a cardiologist referral. I did it through Anima, so it’s not urgent request—but that’s okay.
With my digital chores now done, I returned to First Frost, the C-Drama I’m watching.
Just as a distraction, you understand. Medicinal.
Truth is—I absolutely love the K, C, and J Dramas (Korean, Chinese, and Japanese respectively).
I’ve watched 148 series.
Just so you know: each series is usually 16 episodes. Some stretch to 50. (Gulp!)
Haven’t tackled that one yet.
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Later that same afternoon…
“Thank you, yes. Goodbye. See you next week.”
I’d just finished a call with the local hospice—great timing.
Yes, it’s for me.
No, Mr Grim is not invited for tea.
It’s a preparatory appointment, just to get to know each other, and set up support if needed.
I explained how much had changed after last weekend’s rough spell.
It might be just the right time and place to share some of what I’ve been carrying—somewhere clinical, but not a hospital or GP surgery.
It’ll do us good.
It’s not far away. And inside, it has the best tearoom around, with a great selection of cakes (which I may be a little too partial to).
With its light, airy entrance and cathedral-like café space, there’s plenty to lift the spirits.
Note to self: bring a few books to donate to their second-hand shop.
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I’m getting a bit sleepy now—another episode has come and gone—so I’ll stop boring you shortly.
But I’ve been thinking about how, when I read others’ struggles on the forum, I sometimes step into their shoes. I get an empathy overload.
Most posts I read make me feel lucky to be me, not facing impossible life decisions like some of them are. But then again—I am facing hard things too.
Sometimes I catch myself reading my own thoughts as if they belong to someone else.
It sounds daft, I know—but it’s true.
Earlier today, at the clinic, I realised I was fighting the corner for “Mr U.” I had read his posts, and when I needed to, I remembered the advice he’d been given—and with the quiet strength of his Darling beside him, I knew what to do. I felt his strength.
I think this way of coping started when I was caring for my mother. I sat through almost every clinical appointment in the other chair—listening to the experts, then repeating things into her better deaf ear. I chaperoned her through every hospital corridor, always being the third person, the witness. Maybe that’s why I do this now.
Does it help?
I don’t know if it works every time—but it did today.
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Tonight ends with a strawberry trifle and no sign (yet) of the dreaded AFib. Thank the Lord.
Maybe I’m going mad.
Maybe I’ve been there a while.
But for now, I wish everyone a peaceful night, free from tough decisions.
Two weeks till the bus arrives.
Tricycle One on hold.
A day with My Darling tomorrow.
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No loops tonight. Just rest and reassurance.
