Post 234: Young, free but not single.
Less than a week ago I opted to be youngish, freeish, but never single.
It was a determined effort to keep away from anything to do with hospitals, tests and phone calls about my health.
So here I am, not even a week away from that bold life choice, and I’ve got more calls than ever and strange aches and pains all over the place.
What on earth has happened?
I’m sixty-one and a half (nearly), and six months ago was loosely termed “fit”— fit enough for anything I wanted to do.
What went wrong?
Chemo, I suppose, “went wrong”.
Six months of attempting to slurp Carboplatin down my veins is the problem. I still don’t really know what went wrong, or by how much it was a success or a failure — and by success, I mean the small successes, not noticeable ones.
Looking back, I chose well when my PSA was climbing at 133 and needed addressing, so a decision was made—hurriedly—to get an intervention that would hold the cancer back. I was fit and strong, and the first chemo was only a week past when I had the “massive bilateral pulmonary embolism,” which changed everything.
I’ll never get back to that moment in physical or mental fitness, and right now it’s easy to blame everything on the Carboplatin that nearly killed me—but it pretty much the truth.
At the time, you’re not in a good place to analyse what’s happened or what’s next.
Lying in a hospital bed on a heart ward, I was plunged into a massive bilateral pulmonary low.
I was blindsided by this serious issue caused by the chemo, with the oncology team saying, “It’s nothing to do with us.” Like hell it isn’t!
After all the stress and pain, it was the fact that nobody put their hand up to get me out of coronary care and back into oncology that hurt the most—mentally and physically.
I turned into a leper. Nobody could be bothered with me.
If my Darling hadn’t been there every day to get me through those first confused, worrying days, I don’t know what I’d have done. Even now it pains me to think back to that desperate time. And with the consultant ping—pong I had to go through, I’m surprised I survived it. I certainly haven’t the strength to read over those blogs that tell the story in too graphic detail.
I think now of the hope that sometimes emanates from my blogs, and the occasional reply that supports me as I stumble along day by day. I feel that positivity behind me, pushing me the right way.
It’s the forum support, and my Darling’s touch, that have kept me going through these many desperate months. I thank you all.
You are the stars of this blog. It’s you I have to thank for pushing each small step in the right direction.
So here I am, as weak as a kitten, aches and pains everywhere, and with a very confused outlook.
I want to drive away to some remote spot where I can sit down and think — a retreat in every sense.
A retreat I thought I’d be able to arrange and enjoy, except for interventions like the A&E visit with enormous pain in my lumbar region, only a day after I chose my three-month sabbatical.
Bad timing, or what?
I suppose I have to be honest and say that I’m currently not a fit 61-year-old, and there’s little hope of recovering much of my former “glory.”
I say that hoping I’m wrong, but realistically expecting little gain in muscle or strength due mainly to the HT.
However, my mind is still whole and working — to some extent.
I do have moments of drug—and age-induced weakness and brain fog.
I battle with the fog daily, and sometimes I lose the fight, but I won’t give up.
This blog is a huge part of my life now, and when a few days ago I mentioned ending it — mainly because there are no busses to comment on or hop on or off — I realised how ridiculous that was. This is mental and spiritual therapy for me. It fills a huge gap in my day. I’m used to it. It will have to stay.
So here’s my hope for the next three months:
I want to rest, retreat, and recharge.
I do love you all — I’m not just saying that.
I hope for the odd reaction to each post, but I’m not devastated if there’s nothing written in reply.
I try to write each entry in one sitting and to have some sort of structure, but that’s not always the case, and the brain fog sometimes makes the narrative jump around like a grasshopper on speed.
Thanks for being there.
I hope you stay a while longer.
Good night.
PS
Byron is now in his new seaside home. He’s longing to run around his new garden — as you see.
