Post 70: Fit-full Sleep
It was going so well… I suppose it had to tip back toward frustration eventually.
I’m not sure if I’m worrying because I’ve run out of things to worry about — or if I’m just on the familiar rollercoaster of ups and downs.
———
Another free day meant My Darling could finally spend a bit of time doing something just for her — a much-needed ladies’ day out with her best mate. Nails. Lunch in town. Some joy for her, which she absolutely deserves.
In just two days, we’ll be getting a flying visit from My Darling’s niece and her husband, all the way from Australia. They’re currently popping over from Eire (where they’re based for a couple of weeks), and we get them for a short but sweet reunion. It’s been eight years since we last saw her — and it might be another eight before the next time — so this really matters.
———
So the house prep began as soon as I got up.
I wandered out to the conservatory and surveyed the chaos. It’s basically Mr Vicious’ domain — a cat-hair haven. As he moults all year round, it’s not so much a sunroom as a fur salon. But that was about to change. I got stuck in: started with the dusting, then fired up the vacuum and finally emptied the whole room.
While I was at it, I tackled the shed too — had to make space for the conservatory overspill. Out came the small motorbikes I’ve not ridden in ages (more’s the pity). I shuffled things around, made some space, did a bit of lifting I probably shouldn’t admit to here. My Darling was a bit shocked when she saw — not so much that I’d started, but how far I’d pushed myself.
While she was out enjoying her day and I was elbow-deep in cleaning, I got a call from the local GP.
“Hello, is that Mr U? If you have a RESPECT form, can you send us a copy? And if not, please forward one if and when it’s completed.”
Just like that. No context. No explanation.
It knocked me sideways.
I remembered my late mum filling one of those out in hospital once. It’s basically an end-of-life care plan as I understand— your choices around resuscitation, how far to go, what interventions you want. Sensible, yes. But heavy.
Still, I had no time to dwell on it. I’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn’t show up by 1pm for lunch, I’d be in big trouble. So I tidied up the now-clean conservatory — ready for the cat to undo all my work in record time — locked up the shed, and headed off a little late for my date.
———
Lunch was beans on toast and a blueberry smoothie, and while the company was excellent, I found myself drifting into a darker headspace. Now that I researched and understood what the RESPECT form meant, my mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Is this a hint? Am I sicker than I realise? Has the chemo delay let something get worse? Is my heart worse than I thought?
———
While the ladies chatted away happily, I slipped off for a quick haircut — a distraction more than anything. If chemo restarts Friday (and surely it will), it’ll be a while before I’m back out in the world again, let alone in a barber’s chair. So it’s an opportunity I can’t let go.
My usual barber wasn’t in. “Oh him? He’s left us in the lurch,” I was told. But Will stepped in and did a cracking job — cheaper, too. Bonus! That little win cheered me up a bit. I looked tidier, spent less, and even got a compliment from My Darling: “You look OK.” I’ll take it.
———
Back home, we both just flopped. After a string of busy days, we needed a breather. Feet up, telly on, cat smugly re-shedding in the conservatory. But I couldn’t shake the low mood. That RESPECT form lingered. I did learn later when I walked into the GP surgery to ask them for a form, that it’s usually completed with a clinician, often in hospital. So it’s not a final directive from above — but still, it left its mark.
I got a call from the oncology team at my hometown hospital, confirming my Thursday appointment with Dr A. Maybe she’ll shed light on things. But surely her job is just to greenlight the remaining five Carboplatin cycles? She will, however, have the Whole Body MRI report — and that’s a wild card.
I’m trying not to get ahead of myself, but let’s be honest: seven weeks off treatment is not ideal. That’s seven weeks the cancer’s had to roam freely. My worries are founded in reality, even if I’m trying to keep calm.
Then there’s the call tomorrow from the faraway oncologist who gave the second opinion — they’re following up on bloods and scans. So, whether it’s the form, the cancer, the upcoming visitors, or the looming consultations — something robbed me of sleep last night. Just a couple of hours at most.
So I’m staying in bed this morning. The calls won’t come until the afternoon anyway.
I’m doing all I can:
• Keeping calm
• Staying hydrated
• Monitoring blood pressure
• No AFib
• And… three days until chemo (fingers crossed).
Trying to hold steady. But the weight of it all is hard to ignore.
