Post 224: I Closed My Eyes, Drew Back the Curtain.
Am I in a dream, am I writing my own replies, am I going to wake up soon and find myself back twenty years and able to get that prostate check I wanted, taken more seriously, saving me from this hell on earth?
Am I?
Am I going to be able to ask that bloody doctor again to check my prostate like my boss’ widow asked us to. She learned twenty years ago there’s no harm in checking the walnut-sized prostate with an uncomfortable 2 minutes. Why did he not let me be checked.
It could have saved her hubby.
Maybe twenty years ago I’d have been put on a watch (AS) and had, later, an small op or radiotherapy to keep the walnut in check. Why me?
Am I dreaming?
I know I’m crying…
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Forgive the tear-stained finger dancing, I’m upset.
I don’t really know why I’m upset.
It all started a couple of minutes ago with a frustrating new bottle of Oramorph and a new syringe which kept bobbing in a vacuum and not slurping down the fluid as it should. It took me a few goes to get the 5ml out and into my mouth, by which time I was crying.
Is this a joke?
It’s not funny.
I’m not laughing!
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Let me be for a while.
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What are we doing on this forum? Are we helping each other, reminding ourselves that the worst is coming and those who are suffering the most at the moment are us in the future?
Am I being harsh allowing myself to cry all over my Oramorph-sodden hands while I grumble into this interface with my trembling arms and dancing fingers? Can I allow myself time to grieve for my more advanced friends who are ahead of me and sympathise with those that will come after me.
Am I grieving for myself as my eyes dry a little and I start to settle in my breathing and nasal cavities that were full of selfish snot.
Am I going to wake up from this and laugh with friends I talked to tonight, friends from work that said such nice things because I came along to a ten-pin bowling night out, to see them enjoy their evening like I was let out of my recovery suite for a moment so I could breathe their normal air and normal fun together before being taken back to my bedroom cell and struggle like a twat with a new bottle of painkiller — is this life, life as I know it Jim?
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My ribs both sides are painful tonight.
One side is a sharp broken rib pain, yes the one that got zapped this week in that very forgettable clinic where I rudely walked out after the shit-show of a radiotherapy session without thanking anyone or even looking at anyone after their help. I just looked straight ahead and held my Darling’s hand tightly as I tried not to cry in public.
My other side is aching like I’ve been beaten by a boxer. Bruised and battered but no idea how or why it’s like it. Hence the Oramorph. I want to sleep. I don’t want to rant to you.
I don’t want to rant at you.
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You are my saviour. A place I can witter away and calm down and unwind to rest.
I can’t rest just yet, I’m sorry.
I’m still full of spit!
Why am I in this position of such extremes. Earlier I was happily watching co-workers mucking about, playfully competing on a colourful musical stage where skill and lack of skill was on show without much cause for concern. To have those kind words shouted across the sticky table where the burger and chips were laid out after the games had finished. Why did I laugh and smile and chat and laugh more when inside I’m dying. Dying to not be the guy sitting out and smiling through the sickness.
How did I get here? I don’t want this. It’s rubbish.
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I’m laying in bed and the pains are abating and I feel a little better.
Better perhaps by venting my spleen. Better by shouting out — I’m not happy!
Maybe the Oramorph is helping to calm me.
I wish the syringe had worked. I wish I hadn’t spilt it all down my naked leg as I was getting to bed.
I wish I could have written a witty forum post tonight to entertain you and help you understand how well I am. How much fun I had. How well this forum therapy is helping me understand myself.
But the spear in my ribs is hurting and reminding me I should rest and shut up whinging.
This is the most selfish post I’ve ever written, but it’s a raw honest depiction of what it’s like with an aggressive prostate stage four cancer that didn’t get spotted twenty years ago, back when you couldn’t get tested or screened.
Oh yes, nothing changes. You still can’t, can you?
Unless you have what I have, BRCA2. But I still wasn’t tested all those years ago.
I fell through the cracks of an overloaded NHS that saw me as a nuisance and a neurotic nuisance at that.
One day things will change. Long after I’m gone, things will change.
Let’s dream on that and settle down into a calm place.
I want my Darlings warm hand to hold. Tightly.
Good night
