Post 60: Six Days to Go
The long, deep sleep I had yesterday helped me feel healthier.
After so many disturbed nights in hospital recently, it’s a real comfort to be back in my own bed—with my own toilet just down the hall. It’s the kind of simple luxury you truly appreciate after sharing a ward and its amenities with similarly afflicted strangers.
Being tethered to a bleeping monitor above your head is manageable—until your bladder fills and you need to brave the bottle. Asking for one of those cardboard contraptions has become strangely normal now, as my visits to A&E have become more frequent.
The first time was a little embarrassing, but when nature calls, relief wins out.
It’s funny how a basic daily routine, something you normally take for granted, can be so disrupted by a heart monitor or an IV drip feed. For the staff, it’s all in a day’s work. But for me, it took a bit of adjusting.
So yes—I’m very pleased to be home and in my own space. No weird noises, no unruly patients shouting ureasenably at the staff, no bottles, no beeping. Just My Darling’s love and attention.
The ward I was on for those two long nights did soften somewhat each day at 2pm, when visiting hours began. Everyone in their bed would turn to the doors, waiting for their special people to arrive—with stories from the outside, updates on the weather, and a bag of surprises.
These days, mobile phones have taken the surprise out of it—contact is constant. Gone are the days of relying on messages delivered by nurses at the bedside. Now, the bag of surprises is often just the items from a texted shopping list.
Still, the ease of communication today makes you reflect on how different things used to be.
Calling from a Trimphone with its quirky ringtone, or from a wall-mounted grey GPO dial phone tethered by a yard of coiled cable to the cold hallway—standing on a fraying mock-Persian rug.
Those days are gone, and thankfully so. But they were simpler times. You could enjoy peace and quiet all day, with no constant pings or notifications. Leaving a note on the stairs saying “playing down the lane—back by bedtime” was normal.
I was always out: fishing, climbing trees, playing—all things that got me out of the house and into fresh air.
Today, children are tracked via “Find Me” apps on their phones, and parents hover in anxious hope that their little ones are where they’re supposed to be. Trust in strangers is at an all-time low, and a Big Brother-style leash seems to be standard.
In some ways, my childhood felt freer—more about trust, exploration, and space.
But I wouldn’t want to face my current health issues in those times. No chance.
Living in an age of medical advancement is what’s keeping me alive, even if I’m something of a challenging customer.
Speaking of which, apart from a lingering back pain—which I now suspect might be the result of a spinal lesion—I feel pretty well. My heart is back to its slow resting rate of 45.
Yesterday, My Darling drove us down to the park, and we took a steady walk around the pond, checking on the moorhens and watching the skating bugs do their thing. It gave us a mile’s worth of exercise, and a welcome breath of fresh air.
My smartwatch told me my heart rate stayed lowish during the wander, which was a bit disconcerting. I don’t know if the new pills are keeping it suppressed, but I’ll pay close attention the next time we go out—and report back if this is the new norm.
Meanwhile, My Darling is fussing over me more than ever as we count down to chemo on Friday.
I must avoid any hiccups with my heart, or there’ll be another automatic delay.
I really feel for her.
Her beautiful head is full of worry and stress—pain that only chemo (and progress) can begin to ease.
But I’ve got a good feeling.
In six days, I’ll be back in the big chair, needle in my arm, and nurses guiding that Carboplatin toward my unsuspecting cancer cells.
⸻
I have to behave.
I have to be brave.
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”
— Mary Anne Radmacher
