Post 51: Complications & Courage
An early morning alarm pulls me from sleep for the 7:30am blood test. The drizzly rain suits my mood perfectly.
As I step into the shower, I notice something small but worth celebrating, no I’m not being rude!—the itchiness is gone. The red electropad marks are still there, but they no longer scream for attention. I’m crossing my fingers for the meds to be adjusted (for the better) and that I can finally say goodbye to the AFib for good. I don’t want another cardioversion.
Back home, I quietly make some toast and settle downstairs so My Darling can keep sleeping. She’s been in bed since 6:30pm last night, and it’s now 11am—she’s still upstairs, purring like a giant cat from a children’s fable, catching up on a tiresome weekend that put us both through the wringer.
Aside from a few shoulder aches, I’m feeling good.
I’ve sent a few updates via email to keep all my theoretical medical plates spinning—I must not let anything break.
Yes, of course I’m disappointed the chemo has been pushed back another week. But I get it. In these circumstances, it’s the right call.
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Later today, we’re heading off to my old home town to see Big Sis after she finishes work. Little Bro might be there too, along with my bro-in-law. It’s My Darling and my anniversary weekend, but since we were expecting chemo tomorrow, not much was planned.
Now that treatment’s postponed, there’s some room for spontaneity. The weather looks grim, so probably no outdoor gallivanting—but maybe a takeaway or curry out; and we haven’t had one of them in ages.
It’s my birthday too, so a caterpillar cake with one candle would make a perfect pudding.
Yes, I’m easily pleased. And unashamed.
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Then, disappointment turns to glee.
I get a call from the faraway hospital asking if I can come in for blood tests and to collect some pre-filled syringes of anti-clotting meds; as previously advised.
Damn right I can.
I bolt upstairs to tell My Darling the good news. She’s still in deep sleep and promptly tells me what a terrible idea it is to wake her. But once her brain kicks in, she sees the logic—we need to leave now. It’s already midday and the hospital’s 90 minutes away.
The drive is smooth. Check-in and bloods go like clockwork. At the pharmacy, they explain that the pre-loaded syringes contain a bit too much fluid, so I’m shown exactly how far to press the plunger.
With that all completed, we set off for Big Sis’s.
We have a lovely visit, complete with a good old natter with Little Bro. But then—the mood shifts.
Suddenly, I feel a few ectopics.
I panic. It feels like they’re building into something worse, something familiar, something I don’t want to live through again.
I grab My Darling, grab my coat, and we head of quickly home.
Hardly any time for goodbyes, I just need a quiet ride home.
Thankfully, the ectopics don’t escalate, and no hospital trip materialises.
But that moment—that sheer panic—sticks with me. I realise: this is what I’ve become. Someone who fears a physical symptom so much it suspends reality for a moment, and replaces it with terror.
I thought I was calm. Collected.
Turns out I’m not. Not always.
The fear of another cardioversion this week hangs heavy over everything. I can’t afford to go through AFib episodes every other day while the cancer remains unchallenged. I need progress. I’ve had enough waiting.
Thankfully, the shark stayed below the surface tonight.
But I still heard the music.
I still saw the ripples.
And for a few minutes, I was afraid.
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For the first time, I truly realise: I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I’m easily knocked off course. Fragile, like a delicate piece of stained glass one moment—a roaring lion the next.
But My Darling and I? We stand our ground together.
Defiant. Unyielding. United.
Alway snd forever.
⸻
Stop Press:
Tomorrow, I’ve been booked in for a full-body MRI scan at the faraway hospital. A real chance for clarity. For direction. For answers.
And that, at long last, feels like real traction.
I’m positive.
I’m willing.
I’m roaring like a lion.
