Post 430: Day 3 of Magic Pills Makes Me Smile.
Although there is a heap of things in the background of my life that are not managed, or to put it another way, there’s so much on the back burner that I’ve missed the tipping point and need help sorting out these issues, problems and things that upset me.
There’s my health and the cars, the insurance company that “stole” my money, and an unassailable bellyache about them all.
My weight has dropped from a very normal 12 stone to a measly 11 stone 2 pounds and that bothers me the most.
In the time I’ve lost that weight I’ve had my birthday, anniversary and Father’s Day. I got so many boxes and packets of chocolates that I feel I’m not trying hard enough, but equally I feel sick at the thought and sight of them.
This is a general issue of not having any appetite and, earlier today, a neighbour from across the road popped in on the hottest day of the year to chat.
He was a welcome visitor and stopped me from flying about the place in my third day of magic-pill enthusiasm.
We sat down and I put the kettle on and, before long, we had the family-life/chemo-life thing put to bed.
The lethargy and tiredness, everything being tasteless — “more salt on my dinner please,” he remarked.
Everything that I felt last year and, to be honest, some of what I feel today is down to cancer and chemo, even after a year.
But we banged on and on as equals in this dreadful state of affairs where trips to the oncologist were the highlight of the vicious cycle that is chemo treatment.
He went away to his home in his opinion that the NHS is the most amazing thing in the world when you’re fighting a major health issue.
I agree that we have in this country something that I would travel to the ends of the earth to have in my back pocket.
It’s very easy to see the bad in something or someone but the fact remains that we all need help sometime, and I reached 58 years old without costing the country a penny.
I felt good about this.
Mum had all the cancers and the help to fight them, but not me. Oh no. I was fit and healthy and now look at me now.
It’s not that I’m feeling grim and sad about the next steps I’m taking, with or without endless pain and suffering, but when I eat something nice the pit of my stomach says, “You’ve eaten too much,” after the first forkful.
There’s a possible mental thing there, who knows?
Am I imagining this feeling?
Well, later today I wanted to eat another little can of sardines and a slice of frozen takeaway pizza with the last of the lovely beetroot on the side.
Yes, it’s a big dinner but how can that be the only thing, other than a blackish banana and a dryish easy-peeler, I’ve eaten all day?
My energy levels are still high but that might be garage euphoria, an experience most men can understand when a couple of hours is possible tinkering in the garage at home.
But once around the sitting room with a hoover or duster, the very thought of it is enough to send you back to bed for a rest.
So what’s up with me?
The big day yesterday with two kids in the midst of something so lovely, exciting and life-changing, counting the days toward mum-and-dadhood.
Oh, the changes in them.
Positively fantastic and something to think about each day with pleasure.
Our day was only marred by my Darling’s tiredness after work and especially after her long 10.5-hour day in A&E.
It wears her out so much and I wonder if we could step those hours down a little more.
But it’s a life-changing moment too and can we afford to live in a place like this, our palace, our other pride and joy, unless she does these tiring weekends?
She’s happy doing these shifts with her mate of many years and so there’s lots riding on them, but I can’t help thinking that the burden I place on her is too big on its own without any of her ailments, which she rarely says anything about.
She’s happy keeping it all in.
She thinks moaning is for others.
For me perhaps. I certainly do plenty.
But on a sunny afternoon, which we all enjoyed in the beer garden and later in the back garden at home, we were temporarily in an idyll.
I won’t weigh myself till Friday.
That’s the weighing day if there is one.
If I’ve picked up a few notches I’ll be happier.
I’m sure I will.
The elephant in the room is my beloved Volvo and a chat with a stranger today made me see how far I’d come in a week.
He was doing some gardening over the road for another neighbour and, because we’re getting a valet on My Darling’s Big Bro, tomorrow, I wanted to know if he was chainsawing, strimming or otherwise causing a dust storm above our car tomorrow.
“The car valeter would be tutting all day, you know what I mean?”
But he smiled and said, “No way. One day here and I’ll be back in three weeks.”
That started a conversation about cars, Volvos in particular.
He had just sold one and now owns another and that meant I could mention my love of older Volvos, without a tear I might add.
So I’m getting better and maybe, in that room, the elephant is slowly walking away, even with its sad glances back at me.
My Darling came home and looked like she’d kill anything that got in the way of her bed, so I took note and sent her trotting upstairs with a peck on the cheek, retreating fast enough to maintain a clear line of sight to the stairs and the sanctuary she needed so badly.
It was only 2:30pm but I bet it felt like 8pm.
As it happened, it actually was 8pm when she woke.
I was finishing my banquet that I mentioned earlier to which I had two beetroot too many, but I forced them down and was tidying up when my Darling came back downstairs.
“I had sardines.”
“Yes,” she said sternly, “I can easily smell them,” holding her nose in a mocking way.
I asked if she wanted to do what she had planned today about applying the new registration plates to the car, but as it was, it was too late. The lines had shut at 7pm so that would have to wait.
After a light hug and another peck on the cheek she went to the TV lounge of blue sofas and I went back upstairs to make my bed and take the last slurp of Oramorph ’25 for backache.
But here’s the thing.
That’s only the second dose out of a possible six all day.
Now that’s progress, I’d say.
I’ve noticed since just before I took the steroids that even taking Oramorph of any year wouldn’t touch the pain in my nerves that the steroids immediately took away, so my intake of extra opium is down to a minimum.
It always amazes me how there’s a drug for everything, but the side effects might not be acceptable for a longer duration.
So the first job tomorrow is to get those personal plates on the car registered, cleaned and puckered up.
They’ll be the talk of the town (in this little close).
Ha ha.
It took me an hour and a half to re-drill the holes that the BMW servicing crew did for me and, grateful as I was at the time, I realised pretty soon, when I got the old plates off the car while the owner sweetly slept, that the holes didn’t correspond with the holes in the car.
So I started easing out the rear plate holes to make it fit into place.
A while later I grabbed the cordless drill I’ve not touched for years and gladly rattled out a bit more until, hey presto, it was on to my satisfaction.
The front was worse: one smaller hole and a larger amount out of position.
Oops.
So I started with a dowel in one end, lined up the other and drilled a completely new hole.
I tested that out and all was found to be pretty damn good.
Pretty cool, pretty well fitted.
I’m a happy bunny and My Darling will be too.
These little jobs were impossible a few days ago but now I’ll happily get on the dance floor for a smooch at the wedding of the year this Saturday.
If the tablets are still working by then.
Talking of the wedding, the good news is that the evening before, the mums and dads will have a meet-and-greet near the wedding venue and eat together in what hopes to be an easy atmosphere of celebration.
What’s done is done and a little relaxing meal never hurt anyone.
So, “The Friday meet-up might not work this week,” Big Sis said to me in a text sometime today.
Well, I was amazed she had time anyway but maybe she will be able to relax here amongst the cat and the usual rantings we share while putting the world to rights.
And the last thing, maybe, is that the new printer is ready and awaiting my starting up the printing a hard copy of Blog Posts 1–188, (the chemo times) which I haven’t got round to yet.
I’m awaiting a rainy day.
Ha ha.
And the very last thing:
How am I getting to work if the car-cleaning man is still valeting the only car available to me?
Oh dear, the things that run through my head.
What am I like?
Good night.
Take care.
