Post 34: Raining while pausing.
Vital Statistics
Mood: moody
Anything else: rain at last 
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A great early start to the day when My Darling’s 4am blood pressure check, before she heads off to work, is a perfect reading (117/77/50) which is a great relief.
I give her a sleepy kiss and she’s away, and I’m not far behind her… except she’s heading to work, and I’m going back to sleep.
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Later, just as I was peeling a pink-lady after a tasty sandwich and the now compulsory too much water, the phone rang — finally, I have a response from the oncology department.
I kept a calm and professional manner to start with and learned the callers name (the nurse assigned as my first point of contact) and best of all I was given her NHS email address too. That alone cheered me up more than it should have done. Direct contactability.
We briefly discussed the plan to resume chemo, but when I started to voice my concerns about the PE and clots I broke down. Suddenly overcome, I couldn’t speak and big boy tears rolled down my cheeks.
(Grow a pair, Mr U!)
The nurse sympathised and I regained my composure and she told me there’ll be a face-to-face meeting with my oncologist a week Wednesday. This would be after the echocardiogram, so we’ll have all the facts to make the right decision.
In the quiet moments between sobs, she filled the gaps by mentioning that pulmonary embolisms (PEs) during treatment aren’t unusual.
I asked, “But why wasn’t I already on anticoagulants, given my history of AFib?”
Her answer: “We don’t put people on anticoagulants before chemo.”
I’m still not over the sheer absurdity of this carboplatin clot situation. The more I learn and consider; the more I flip between anger and confusion.
On the whole it was a positive start to the day.
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It rained last night — possibly even thundered, according to Facebook.
The grey clouds overhead suit my mood but in the garden, if it could speak, would be singing in the rain. After one of the driest springs I can remember, the ground is like concrete and only the weeds are thriving. I don’t waste any water on the borders — the plants have to live or die by nature’s grace, though there are four large butts full of water which I rarely use. I’m a bit of a reluctant gardener, unlike my Dad.
Dad had very green fingers.
Our back garden growing up was 100 feet long, with a straight path on the left hand side up to a car parking space at the very top. Nearest the house was his greenhouse full of seedlings or tomatoes, then rows of dahlias — brilliantly coloured blooms that Dad would cut and take to lay at the headstones of our lost and loved old-ones. Then came the veg beds: potatoes, carrots, beans — all rotated annually as he was taught when apprenticed as a nurseryman, straight from school.
At the far end were the fruits — apples, gooseberries, blackcurrants… and probably others I’ve forgotten.
It was his proud domain, although he did make room occasionally for the many family pet burials over the years — goldfish, guinea pigs, cats, dogs, budgie, canary, and one rabbit. An underground patchwork of family grief marked with lolly stick grave-markers.
A Pet Sematary unlike Steven King’s.
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My Darling accompanied me again for another successful short walk around the block.
Although apparently, I walk too slow for her and she “needs a better workout.” How rude. Ha ha!
I am doing my best. My heart races but there’s still no pain.
It was lovely to be out in the fresh air, with the only downside being the factor fifty sun cream slathered on my face (the only bit of skin not covered), and the timing could’ve been better — the local school had just let out and the pavements were packed with kids, mums, and parked cars.
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Later, Little Bro came over for a couple of cups of tea and a biscuit fueled natter — and brought his very well-behaved little female Yorkie. So while Lulu was making good use of the sofa, Mr Vicious was sprawled in the conservatory, blissfully unaware (or strategically avoiding conflict).
It was nice to have a bit of social normality, and the earlier tears seemed to fade away.
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But the truth is: I’m still struggling to smooth out the ups and downs of life as a lab rat.
Over the past two and a half years, I’ve known, ignored, fought, and lived with this thing. I try not to think of the extremes, or contemplating the entire cancer reality.
I look instead into My Darling’s eyes and try to stay grounded in the here and now.
It’s hard to be grounded just now — hard to think “chemo first and last” when it’s more logical to put my “heart” first.
I’m milking the distraction, I know I am.
But if I’m honest, my heart issues have bought me this pause in time — a break from the intense pressure of living with an incurable disease and the unstoppable conveyor of treatment.
I am technically now more ill than ever, but I’m glad of the brakes being applied.
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Also I realise the path back to mental strength won’t come through positivity alone. I’ll need talking therapies at least.
I’ve experienced them before, and they helped immensely.
My Darling’s not ready for that yet, even though I believe she’d benefit too.
When we are diagnosed none are prepared for what this cancer does to us — how it steals choices, independence, plans and changes us forever.
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My Darlings warm hands, squishy hugs, and unwavering love are everything to me. She is my rock and shelter but I find it hard sometimes to speak the words.
But not so with this blog… sometimes it’s the only way I can say how I really feel.
That’s not ideal, I know.
But the distance between me, the words, and the reader gives me just enough space to be more direct. To be more honest.
I hate this cancer for what it’s taken.
I love that this forum lets me get something back.
Together, we have more hope.
So I’ll post this and hope I’ve done the right thing.
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Tomorrow: I have a blood test, then lunch out with My Darling — surrounded by “normal” people who don’t know a thing about the struggles inside my head.
And for a little while, I’ll feel normal too.
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Oversharing.
Overthinking.
Over-sensitive.
That’s me.
— Mr U
