Post 76: I’ve not cried much lately, I must be stronger.
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With Thursday’s chemotherapy now firmly booked, and my A&E visits becoming just ghostly memories, it’s finally time to breathe again. To prepare. To face the next round — the tri-cycles of Carboplatin — and give this cancer the hiding it so thoroughly deserves.
The plan’s simple.
The feelings? Complicated, but getting clearer.
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Dr A’s words from last week still echo in my mind: “All lesions are active — but your organs are clear.”
That’s the tightrope I walk. The good news shadowed by the bad. The threat tempered by the relief.
I’ve learned to pause before spiralling. To listen, let it sink in, and then gently, deliberately, reset the horizon. Worry’s a thief — it robs me of strength I need for battle. I still have moments, of course, but like Mr Vicious, I’ve found solace in rest. In surrendering to sleep. Sometimes that’s the bravest and best thing to do.
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Back pain update:
It’s easing. The fireworks that launched from my hips out of nowhere seem to have fizzled out — no trigger, no warning, just an ambush. But the paracetamol can stay in the drawer now, for a while at least. I still suspect a nerve issue, so I’ll ask Dr A if anything showed up on the spinal section of my full-body scan. Best to ask. Best to know.
Pain has been rare on my journey — nearly three years without much to complain about physically. That’s a gift. And I still have all my hair.
After a week in the sunshine recently, I even have visible tan lines — not the look I was aiming for, but it made me smile.
Thursday will put an end to that simple freedom. Chemo returns, and with it, the bubble — but this time, we won’t wrap ourselves in quite as much cotton wool. We’ll be cautious, yes, but not frightened. Life still needs to be lived.
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In the garden:
The sunflower seedlings from Big Sis are now up past my knee. Blown around by the wind, still standing tall. A good metaphor, maybe.
The front lawn is flourishing in its unmown state, full of “purple-ones,” “daisy-ones,” and “golden dandy-ones.” My Dad, the proper gardener, would despair at my naming conventions. But hey, beauty is beauty, even when you don’t know its Latin horticultural names.
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Little Bro dropped by in the late afternoon. We laughed until our stomachs hurt — old stories, old pets, and the daft things we did as kids.
That kind of laughter is medicine too. The best kind.
And isn’t it a strange feeling to suddenly realise you’re the age your dad was when he looked… well, old? That a perspective I look upon differently now.
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I’ve got three days left before I board that bus again.
The counselling’s helped quiet the storms in my head.
I’m steadier.
I’m readier.
And I’m getting back on.
