Post 5: Five hours of fun.
It’s the day My Darling has been dreading, she’s up at a quarter before eight to make me a light porridge breakfast. I guess it’ll be a while till we get home from the the first infusion, which sounds more like a herbal tea than a platinum based poison, so a bit of food will quieten the nervous slugs in my belly.
and so it begins…
Tricycle one 15/4/25 ground level, green area, bay B, (there is no EBay, I asked 
) seat 5.
All we know is the time that we start and the time the infusion arrives, ten and eleven respectively. The other timings are at the mercy of the nurses, the other patients and me.
All of you who’ve been through this know what happens next, but for me it going to be the first time I’ve had such a big intervention. I’ve been very lucky and never stayed in hospital overnight or very long. My Mum did. She had three cancers. I think she was a collector of medical ailments. I was there for her first chemo for a stomach lymphoma in Poole hospital all those years ago. The things I remember were the nearly frozen infusion pack which when emptying made her arm so cold. I don’t remember much else. Probably blanked it out.
I’ve had many kind wishes from the forum and family and friends for which I thank every one. I’m not alone. I’m more inquisitive than anxious about today, being in the unit with 5 others in similar circumstances, all having their own thoughts and feelings. Seeing how other people spend their time while they’re cycling.
The cat looks up at me but doesn’t wish me a good morning, just a feed-me-now growl. At least some things never change. Who’s driving my darling? I call. I guess it me. Concentrating on missing some of the bigger potholes in the road will be handy, and the slippery surface because we have our first rain for months.
It’s a grey cloudy miserable day. It seems like the weather is mimicking our thoughts…
The vitals are taken it is proven that I am alive. That’s a great start.
PSA is now 133 ouch!
We are continually updated about the missing infusions. They’re stuck somewhere between the chemo factory teapot and here on bay B. The where is not know.
At least it’s quiet here in bed-chair 5. Yesterday now seems like chaos compared to this serene bay with several patients like me, in for treatment, and others drifting in and out for tests. I’m midway in the bay and can easily see out the windows across the manicured gardens with their dark pink cheery cherry blossom and beyond towards the tree lined eastern hills.
Spring is in full swing and the grey clouds have lifted and bathed the blossom in bright sunlight. Beautiful.
With the time rattling on to 1 o’clock the infusions arrive. Now there’s a whole rash of names and numbers checked by the nurses and then rechecked and thrice-checked for security and safety, while the patient patients begin to smile in anticipation of the process processing.
Probably like me, we are calculating when we might get home… 3pm for me 
And like magic the Carboplatin is attached to the drip-hook way above my head and with more name checks we are off. Only an hour to go and it’s done.
There’s no pain or changes to my body or personality; yet 
. I don’t feel like anything’s happened.
But all the while I can hear the little horses in the Baxter drip machine clip-clopping away beside me pumping me full of medical poison.
The hour passes quickly and quietly and after a 5 minute flush (not the hot sweaty type neither) I’m patched up and free to go.
Just over 5 hours home to home; I can’t complain about that.
I’m glad it’s over but I’m also glad I didn’t worry about it too much, it was a nice chance to sit still and natter with My Darling.
One down 5 to go, yippee!
Come on My Darling you can drive.
She holds my good hand tightly gives me a big hug and we are away home
