Post 72: Roller-Coasting Up Then Down
Today was always going to be a big one — the first meeting with my new oncologist, Dr A. Whatever else happened, I just needed to hear those two words: chemo restart.
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No time to dawdle this morning — our Aussie visitors were already on their way.
“Get up, Mr U!” My Darling shouted from somewhere in the house, waking me from my dozing state.
“We’re meeting them at the café for brunch — surprise!”
“OK,” I called back, half laughing, half muttering about missing out on my much-needed beauty sleep. I could do with loads more of it, to be fair. Ha!
We met in town and, after the long, happy hugs, we tucked into brunch and started catching up on all things life-down-under. My Darling’s niece and her hubby both looked knackered after their travels, so we brought them to their digs for some much-needed rest.
Meanwhile, I headed back to the GP surgery for my chemo bloods. Quick in and out: venous catheter in, bloods taken, plaster on, done. Then it was straight into the car and off to the hometown hospital for the main event — the big meeting with Dr A.
It was shaping up to be one of the hottest days of the year, so we drove with the windows down, old-school. I can’t stand air-con blasting cold air; it gives me instant brain freeze. I’ll always choose the warm breeze and ruffled hair. My Darling didn’t object, so we rode north in a lovely windswept silence.
At the hospital, we found the clinic easily and had just a short wait (our fault for being early). Then we were welcomed by a smiling and genuinely warm Dr A. We got right down to it.
What’s the plan? When do we restart chemo?
First, the good news. Dr A knows Dr R from the second-opinion hospital — the one who oversaw my whole-body MRI — and had already received the scan report. A beautiful example of joined-up thinking. At last!
The scan shows that all the lesions are active, but — and this is huge — there’s no spread into any organs.
Brilliant. Concerning on the activity front, but still, brilliant.
I asked about my PSA.
“It’s 712,” she said, “but we wouldn’t expect it to come down with no treatment going on, would we?”
Clear. Fair. Obvious when you think about it.
“But,” she added, “chemo can’t restart tomorrow as planned — because today’s bloods won’t arrive at the Day Ward until after 6 p.m., and there’s no time to prepare the Carboplatin infusion for tomorrow.”
Instead, the booking team will call me tomorrow to confirm a new appointment — early next week.
We left the clinic reassured. The primary objective was complete: chemo is happening again — within days. Everything felt great.
So we headed back to rejoin our jet-lagged guests for some proper family time.
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What could go wrong?
Back home, we gathered under our hastily-erected 3x3m gazebo, sheltering from the blazing sun. The chat was light, laughter easy, and time just slipped away. Eventually, we placed an order with the local Chinese takeaway, and while we waited, a familiar and unwelcome pain crept into my lower back.
I’d only had this pain twice before, and I knew it could turn nasty — fast.
I made my excuses and headed upstairs. I took paracetamol immediately, then curled up in the only position that helped: knees to chest, forehead down. It was grim for about 20 minutes, but finally the pain eased. Still, I stayed in bed. I couldn’t go back downstairs and make it all about me — that wouldn’t be fair. And they understood; we had told them things might change at the last minute. They were brilliant.
I lay there listening to the soft, low chatter coming through the open upstairs window. I couldn’t make out the words, but the sound was calming. I must have drifted off.
Then at 11 p.m., it hit — a massive AFib episode, sudden and violent.
Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.
It came on like a wave: central chest pounding, ribs aching, heart hammering out of rhythm. Not painful, just horribly intense. My breathing turned mechanical, trying to chase the beat. I kept telling myself: This will pass.
When My Darling came to bed, she clocked the situation instantly. She panicked, of course — I could see it in her face — but she tried to hide it, tried to stay calm. She kept checking my watch face again and again, tracking my heart rate, but eventually dozed off still holding my wrist.
I lay awake, riding out the storm.
At 3 a.m., it stopped.
Just like that, sinus rhythm returned.
Four hours. The first 30 minutes were the worst — full force. I thought the Sotalol had fixed this. I thought I was past this bit.
And now I’m stuck with a dilemma:
Do I tell the oncologist?
Do I risk more delays to chemo?
I have a Sotalol follow-up at the CCU Friday morning with an ECG. I’ll tell the brilliant cardiology registrar, Dr E, and see what he thinks.
Wish me well.
They say it’s not over till the fat lady sings, and right now,
I can’t hear a single note.
When will I hop back on the bus?
