Post 79: Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy.
The end justifies the means; all’s well that ends well…
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As you can imagine, being asked after half an hour in the local chemo Day Unit, “We’re not sure why you’re here — when did you get booked? Did you call us?” made my heart sink; No buses today?
I looked at My Darling, who was sitting beside me with a puzzled expression and a dawning realisation that this might be yet another postponement. It can’t be helped, but we resolved to wrangle the facts from the nurses and figure out what’s what.
I sat up in the orange chair beside a freshly cleaned bed, thankful I’d had a hot porridge breakfast before we set out this morning. We still had no landline, internet, or WiFi, but we were on schedule, and while we hoped for a 2 p.m. homebound drive, nothing could ever be assumed. So the orange chair became my holding spot in this busy, high-turnover department.
I was comfortable, especially when My Darling, ever thoughtful, wriggled her hand inside her tote bag and produced my Sudoku booklet — fabulous! Just what I needed to pass the time. I love the logical flow of corralling nine numbers into their rightful grid; it keeps my mind off getting increasingly jaded with the lady in the adjacent bed, who was loudly narrating her entire day to anyone not entirely deaf — like a town crier without an E-stop.
(Emergency-stop button — a factory necessity, though not fitted to all humans.)
The “canary” was clearly fed up, caught in a holding pattern not of her own making:
“I will have been here six hours… I still need radiotherapy before I go home… I need to call my husband; can someone help?”
And on it went. Ad infinitum.
My orange Sudoku chair kept me from interceding — a mercy for everyone, perhaps — and I filled in more numbers, waiting patiently for permission for her to land and continue on her way.
Sure enough, my details were eventually cross-checked, and it turned out I was in another conundrum — of my own making, it seems.
“We haven’t had clearance from AO (Acute Oncology) to continue the chemo cycles,” I was told, “but we are waiting to hear back.” “It will be soon”.
No matter what I explained about the recent back pain and emergency spinal MRI, I couldn’t advance the protocol.
Treatment constipation, you could say.
The canary, meanwhile, had kept us all updated on her daily rituals and her hubby’s driving schedule, occasionally pausing long enough for others to chip in. Some did. Most patients just feigned sleep — or were genuinely snoozing.
Then Ms P the AO nurse arrived, in a whoosh, with a laptop in hand and a very determined brow. She was my enema — in the best way — here to get things moving.
“I have the email trail confirming today’s chemo was approved by Dr A (my new lead oncologist) tow days ago,” she said. “Don’t worry — I’m here to sort it out.”
And off she went to advocate on my behalf.
I didn’t see her leave. I may have nodded off after being sung to sleep by the caged canary, but eventually she was released (to the unsuspecting radiotherapy suite — bless them), and Ms P had worked her magic.
The lovely ward nurse E came to fit me with a cannula and get this show back on the road.
After the usual checks and balances — confirming who I was and what I was due to receive — Nurse E, who had been with me for the three hours of patient waiting, got things rolling. My Darling had popped out in search of coffee for herself and chocolate treats for the amazing staff but arrived back for the fabulous sight of drips being attached. The staff follow the protocols for our safety, and a little thank-you treat feels far more fitting than a quick goodbye on exit.
The Carboplatin infusion began — finally. And I have to say, it felt like molten lead pouring into me. My shoulders especially felt super heavy, and my already low resting heart rate slowed down further. Nurse E checked on me several times throughout the hour but I was in my chemo coma.
I kept reassuring her, as did my ever-watchful Darling: “I’m okay — just tired.”
My heart rate dipped to 39–40 bpm, but for me, that’s not alarming, “I’m resting”.
The saline flush woke me up after the half hours drip-dripping, and in no time at all I felt normal. Nurse E was so attentive and efficient — and the chocolates were her well-earned reward, shared among all who sail in this wonderful Day Unit.
The second cycle was done.
At last. Nine weeks after the first.
But I was back on the bus, and it felt good.
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Believe me when I say that My Darling and I were elated, not anxious, on the journey home — unlike the first time, when we were adrift in uncharted waters.
There was even a bonus in my bloods:
My PSA had dropped 60 points to 652.
How? Who knows. I’m not questioning it — I’m just taking it as the positive it is.
We arrived home to find the EE parcel waiting — another quiet win.
Mr Vicious, of course, tried to reclaim top spot on the priority list, rubbing his charm around my ankles, but I was already tearing into the new router box. Five minutes later:
TV. WiFi. Landline. Internet — all live.
Fantastic.
Recovery begins now — but not before feeding the (allegedly) starving Mr V and resetting all those WiFi passwords.
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All three members of the household finally relaxed, basking in the calm after a week — or nine — of storms.
We posted a few updates and spoke to friends and family over our newly restored WiFi. You could feel the love and relief pouring in through every message and call.
It is a good day.
I’m booked in for Cycle Three, three weeks from now — and I’d very much like to keep to that schedule.
Who knows what’s in store?
Honestly — who cares?
I have My Darling beside me, and together we’ve emerged from that unexpected dip. We’ve survived.
I’m back on the chemo tricycle (tri-week cycle).
We can resume the Italian thriller saga on catchup, everything thing is great, Da-der-da-da-da-da-der-der. 1979 - Inner Circle - A fab tune that I have on 12” single.
Peace at last.
No advocacy.
No infections.
Just routine, self-care, and quiet fitness.
We’ve hopped back on the bus. And we’re delighted.
