Post 96: A painfully quiet week ends.
At the start of the week it’s time to take stock – lazy Sundays are exactly that. They’re lazy.
———
The sunflowers keep growing in the bags by the wall, now nearly as tall as my Darling. Relatives over the Irish Sea have enjoyed a nephew’s wedding with all the trimmings — the photos we’ve seen are wonderful. New champions have been crowned on the grass courts of Wimbledon under hot summer skies, and the Test match at Lord’s looks like a classic in the making.
Meanwhile, my Darling is stuck with a husband wincing and mincing in pain — pain she can’t see but feels intensely.
There are no highlights this week for me as such, though talking over pain relief with the Hospice Dr has been useful. By the end of this week I’ll have new hope in new pills that might take the edge off. I’ll start chasing up my GP today to see where we’re at.
Life changed when the back and rib pain started — more than I can believe. Taking pills out with me just to get by is an essential inconvenience. It wrecks the simple happiness of the spontaneity of just going out. Then there’s the laxatives — I’m still trying to get my head around them — that tie you to toilets and cast a long shadow over anything you’re doing.
I take my hat off to the people who soldier on needing loo breaks regularly without letting it get them down. I’m too much of a princess about feeling ashamed somehow. I know it’s all in my head — but that doesn’t make it easier to change. So I plan, and I strategise, just to avoid the embarrassment.
The diet that’s kept me happy for years is now defunct, and I’m confused by this new slow-slow-slow-fast rhythm of my bowels. Twice this week I’ve had a softish deluge after days of nothing. More fibre, fruit, greens… I know the drill. I might ask the oncologist nurse tomorrow — it’s probably just the chemo, but I’d like to be sure. The distended belly’s no fun.
Mr Vicious has been quietly shadowing me in the garden, sharing the shade and making sure some part of him touches me — for attention more than support, but still, a comfort. He seems to moult year-round, and I try not to stroke him too much or we end up swimming in floating cat hair. He leaves such a mess you’d think we’d vacuumed him up by now - Damn cat!
My Darling’s pills are beginning to calm her blood pressure and, in turn, our nerves. But she still gets the headaches. Maybe a little more time is needed. Still, I worry she worries too much about me.
The idea of moving hasn’t taken off yet. It’ll only happen if we tip into an estate agent and actually get the ball rolling.
All in good time.
This week is chemo week — it has its own rhythm: infusion day followed by three steroid-fuelled days as the body scrambles to cope. Maybe next week we’ll take that first step and step inside an agent’s office. Who knows. I’m letting My Darling lead — it has to work for her first and foremost.
So this quiet third week of the chemo cycle winds to a kind-of-satisfactory end. The big scan on the 25th looms — that’ll set my course. If it’s good, we can look at getaways, nearby nights out, well-earned breaks. If not? Let’s not go there.
I’m not enjoying the ride, but I’m still on the bus.
This week is a stepping stone — a shaky one, but one step closer to a better place.
I still love the cuddles, though they’re softer now. A lighter touch because of the sensitivity to pain.
Chemo 3 in four days.
(Sounds like a film sequel that shouldn’t have been made.)
