Today I wake at 3 am initially, feeling my stomach complaining and unsettled. I feel mildly nauseous and note that I didn't even make it to morning before the ingrained memory in my brain began its usual storytelling.
Al and I wake at 6 am because we have to be at the hospital by 8 am for my last chemo! Hooray!
After all the fear I acknowledged yesterday, I'm feeling relatively calm. I can't say I'm too excited, but. If this whole ordeal is a race, then I'm a third of the way through in my journey to reconstruction.
I'm late when I arrive at the Hospital and my three buddies, Janet, Tracey and Nim are already there. All they can say is "It's the last one!" As predicted, Tracey gives me a lovely present - earrings and a motivational book; Janet has given me a bottle of Pommeroy for Al and I to celebrate at home when I'm able to drink; Nim places a bangle on my arm: a pretty Turkish amulet to ward off the evil eye. Now nothing can touch me. Guys, you didn't have to!
As I sign in at the front desk, I ask if it is possible to request an older nurse. I am pleased when I realise Mel, a nurse I've met previously will be attending to me.
After signing the paperwork we are led to a suite. The nurse we're following makes a comment about the bag Nim is carrying containing food and fruit salads for us to enjoy.
"You should seek what they're carrying up their anuses," I tell her. "They're my moles - no wait, they're my mules? Amazing how comfortable they look, isn't it?
After I am weighed (I'm 5 kilos heavier than I was 18 weeks ago), we make ourselves comfortable, heaping ourselves to the chairs, later asking for a blanket for my legs because I'm cold. We feel like we own this joint, by now.
i have a younger nurse, a Level 2 RN for the cannula insertion and this time, she is confident and managers to insert the device in one go. However, it'a located in my hand and is really rather painful. I receive my antinauseants.
I'm able to chat quite jovially with the troops while this part of things gets underway. We talk about vaginal dryness and intimacy. You can shut your eyes here if you like but seriously, menopause is rather rough on a woman's sexual proclivities.
I'm flat out playing porn star wife at the best of times but really, vats of lubricant, patience and a sense of humour are strongly recommended in the event couples must wend their way back to even a rudimentary intimacy. Let me just say I have come to rely on hand-holding to indicate my love for Al, occasional hugs and often, words of endearment. I just think it's important to make the effort.
Add a bald head and a disfigured body to the equation and you'll understand that most women in my position find it's a rare occasion indeed when the drilling rig can move in, so alternatives are needed to maintain any mining rights.
As if to illustrate, at this point Nim proudly delves into her cooler bag an procures a rather large cucumber. She proceeds to explain how she'd watched a Greek Movie last night involving a glad-wrapped cucumber, a horny cook and, the salad that it made after the cook had satisfied her carnal needs.
And I promise, Janet, I won't mention anything about the role of origami in romantic titillation.
Come on ladies, what's the point of being shy? We all need intimacy with our partners and be thrown headfirst in hot flushes, mood swings and the melted glacier of Antarctica is not exactly the stuff of Body Heat.
Suck it up and deal with i say... and of course, now I think perhaps that was a poor choice of words.
And now it's time for the Adramycin and Janet holds my hand and Nim strokes my leg because they know I'm anxious about this one. Janet says look at me and I try to make conversation so I ask Nim what she thought of the Book Club book we both read recently, but we're both losing our thread of thought.
It burns like hell and so I have to ask the nurse Mel and the younger nurse to check the cannula again. They back flush it and apparently, it's perfectly positioned. They say they might have to reinsert it at which point my spirit sags. But it's working well, you said? The cold veins and the cold medication mean that my tiny veins are traumatised by the invasion of toxins. THey put some hot packs onto soothe the vein and it seems to feel better, thank goodness.
And so the procedure is completed and it's time for the taxotere. This is the one that gives me heartburn and nausea and half way through, I ams Nim to feed me some of her roll as my hands are in the ice gloves. She alternates delicious chicken role with homegrown chillies.
But I can't eat too much, I'm feeling sick.
THe girl note how the colour leaves me face so I ask for another anti nausea - the Atavan that has been so successful in the past.
Janet has written new lyrics to our favourite party song, "Wooden Heart" and I wanted her to sing it - but I'm fading I know.
Tracey takes a call from her husband Dave, who has telephoned in part to wish me well. what a lovey guy he is.
I doze off and only wake after I discover the Chrorophosphomide has already been introduced.
Wow! That's one way to get through this! Totally doped.
And then, it's finished! Cue Cowbells, Harps, Ukuleles and Zithers.
It's really finished. I kiss Janet and Tracey goodbye and give them a warm hug.
I couldn't have got through this without the three of them who have rearranged schedules, wangled days off and rallied through the chemo chambers with me.
I go upstairs with Nim to see Dr Choo who says everything's well. My blood results had been fantastic.
I am to return to see her toward the end of my radiation - that's in about 9 weeks time.
Then we will discuss what drug regime I'll be put onto. It all depends on whether menopause has been achieved.
Dr Choo says that if my hair grew slowly before (it did) it could be as much as another four months before I have a passable fuzz. C'est la vie.
Nim and I have a cup of tea in the foyer while we wait for Al to pick us up. She holds onto my arm because she says I'm swaying.
When All arrives, we hop in the back of the car and immediately I think, I conk out and miss the part where they drop Nim home.
I wake briefly when the boys stop at Victoria Point. I wake briefly again when we get home.
I lumber to my bed and fall into a dead sleep.
At 7 pm, Al wakes me with dinner but I wish I hadn't eaten. I am feeling nauseous again. I'm not feeling well.
Al is off at his tennis fixtures. Harry has gone out to play with his mates. Ben is watching Spongebog Squarepants and eating porridge next to me.
Outside a fairly strong wind is sheaving the trees.
I'm glad today is over.
Goodbye Cyril GIlbert Centre - thanks for everything but I hope I never see you again.
Goodbye Chemo drugs.
Now just, here's hoping, the next 10 days aren't too diabolical.
I'll keep you posted.
Showing posts with label TAC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TAC. Show all posts
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Oncologist 3
Eight days after Chemo, I think I should be feeling better but it's not to be. I want to chronicle this because it seems that it's taking that little bit longer to feel tickety-boo after each intoxination (is there such a word?)
I wake with pain through my legs and make the mistake of taking two Nurofen. Immediately I get heartburn and lie in bed feeling generally lousy.
In the morning I do some housework. Then I go to the doctor as I'm told I need a referral from a GP to Dr Choo in order to continue to receive my medical benefits. It's such a system, really. With comprehensive medical insurance that I've had for at least 25 years, you'd think these things would be easy!
Al has had to go up to Mooloolaba and, because Harry needs my car, I ring my sister Nicky and ask her to drive me to the Hospital. Bless her, she makes herself available without any fuss and soon, we are driving in.
If nothing else, it's a good chance to catch up with her as we haven't spoken since Christmas Day.
When we arrive, 10 minutes early, the waiting room is packed. It's a good thing we are both keen conversationalists as we are able to flit from one subject to another as we wait... and wait.
My appointment is for 2.30 pm but I don't get into see Poh See until 4.10 pm.
What I like about my oncologist is that she never rushes but will patiently and thoroughly answer any question I have. She answers every call on her mobile phone and will never say "I'm with some one, I'll ring you back." She addresses her patients as if they are intelligent and worth her time.
It's Nicky who later observes afterwards that my oncologist must lead a life of barely holding it together. Her shirt is creased, her hair barely tended, her face free of make up. These frivolous concerns must be unimportant in a world where your job is to keep people alive but, we bet. she also has to do the cooking, cleaning and laundry at home.
As it is, I have a very informative conversation with Dr Choo, and it's helpful that Nicky is there as my sister has an avid mind and a great curiosity for everything.
Firstly, I want to know about my menopause symptoms, what else to expect. Here is what I'm told.
Menopause mainly comprises the symptoms of hot flushes, mood swings, the loss of bone density (over time), increasing issues with vascular health (i.e. cholesterol) and vaginal dryness.
Obviously, each of these symptoms has ramifications of its own so I'm concerned about how long they last.
Dr Choo explains the persistency of symptoms varies from woman to woman and is dependent on the amount of oestrogen that remains in the system after treatment is over. In other words, it's the luck of the draw.
My mother sailed through menopause so I'm hoping it'll be the same for me.
The great news I take out from this is that, while menopause symptoms are intensified in women undergoing chemo, the whole process will be substantially shortened compared to 'normal' based on my age.
One other good effect of this is that I learn that my platelets are actually up! Yeah! As a chronic anaemic, it is good to know that my poor red blood cells finally have a chance to regroup and make friends with each other.
Antarctica is now officially barren (fingers crossed!) and the overall effect on my eco system may result in more energy in the future.
I ask Dr Choo how long drugs stay in my system, when I can expect other side effects to ease. She tells me that the drugs are expunged from the system fairly soon after treatment but the effects will hang around 2-3 weeks after my final chemo.
Other side effects, such as fatigue may take up to four months to abate.
We move on to the vexing issue of my continued and chronic nausea. Dr Choo says I have an 'anticipatory response'. We discuss possible other interventions, such as psychology. I ask her for a drug I was told about that you can take before you actually arrive at the chemo centre to pre empt the nausea and she writes me a prescription.
I should be done now, but I want to talk about my breast reconstruction and my options. I am thinking of having the other breast removed completely and then waiting a while to heal completely before worrying about perfecting my boobs.
Who needs boobs when you're dealing with vaginal dryness for god's sake!
Nicky is keen to know whether having both breasts off reduces the chance of recurrence, why, after chemotherapy and radiation it is necessary and so on.
What I surmise is that oncologists see every combination and permutation of cases, and of course, in some, recurrence does occur in the other breast.
In my case, I'm not so much concerned about recurrence, but I hate being unysmmetrical.
You have no idea how hideous a single, low hanging Double-D breast looks on its own. It's like that last withering mango that not even the bats are interested in. It's like that lone sock, left on the washing line. You know the one? It's usually discoloured and has a hole in the toe. It's the where you know the matching pair is missing and you wonder how long you will leave it there before you can make the effort of reaching up and unclipping the clothes peg?
Dr Choo tells me something I didn't know before: chemotherapy is only effective in the event that there are malignant cells present. So yes folks, all of the shit in my body could be a complete waste of time. A bit like shooting fish don't you think?
Anyway, that's basically why the norm is to attack cancer on several levels. You can never be too careful.
We should be done but after years of interviewing people, I can't help myself. I ask Dr Choo if her job ever depresses her.
I'm surprised at the depth of her answer as she goes to great lengths to explain the motivations of an oncologist. She talks about the importance of leaving her emotions at the office, respecting people's wishes and the fact that ultimately her job comes down to the "privilege" of helping people cope with the ramifications of their disease - i.e. carking it.
I expect it's a well practised spiel and I'd love to ask her more questions but people are waiting. Between Nicky and I, the poor woman could be stuck in her office answering questions until next Christmas (although, come to think of it, according to the Mayans, there ain't gonna be a Christmas this year).
When we leave, I am still feeling squeamish. I realise that even going within a mile of Greenslopes Hospital makes me feel like chucking. My stomach is churning and I feel truly vile. Almost as vile as when I listen to any version of the "Hokey Pokey"... that's what it's all about!
Nicky drops me at home and as I go through my front gate, I check the mailbox.
Inside is a small, book-sized parcel addressed to me. It's wrapped in waxy paper and has a white string tied around it and is covered in stamps.
Inside I find a special Sri Lankan cake (very time consuming to make) called a Love Cake. It's from old family friends, Moira and Tanya. There are a few ants clinging to the side like Indians on a rail siding, but I am really chuffed. I love love cake. In fact, I love, love, love love cake (in which cashew nuts and semolina form main ingredients).
Within minutes of arriving through my front door, Al has dinner on the table. God Bless my man!
An hour later, Craig picks me up and I go to a meeting. (I'm working on a political campaign for my friend, Karen William, who is running for Mayor, and things have started to become nasty).
It's actually a funny night because, at the end, we have to record a jingle.
I get home late, I have to say still feeling bloody awful. By 12.30 pm I still can't sleep so I take a sleeping pill.
After just five hours sleep, I'm now awake.
This morning I'll be baking some cupcakes for a funeral tomorrow. A 10-year-old girl, Chloe, in my nieces' class at Sheldon College, died on Christmas Eve, after a short battle with a brain tumour.
I think about her grieving family.
I think how little time some of us are given.
I think: I have nothing to complain about.
I wake with pain through my legs and make the mistake of taking two Nurofen. Immediately I get heartburn and lie in bed feeling generally lousy.
In the morning I do some housework. Then I go to the doctor as I'm told I need a referral from a GP to Dr Choo in order to continue to receive my medical benefits. It's such a system, really. With comprehensive medical insurance that I've had for at least 25 years, you'd think these things would be easy!
Al has had to go up to Mooloolaba and, because Harry needs my car, I ring my sister Nicky and ask her to drive me to the Hospital. Bless her, she makes herself available without any fuss and soon, we are driving in.
If nothing else, it's a good chance to catch up with her as we haven't spoken since Christmas Day.
When we arrive, 10 minutes early, the waiting room is packed. It's a good thing we are both keen conversationalists as we are able to flit from one subject to another as we wait... and wait.
My appointment is for 2.30 pm but I don't get into see Poh See until 4.10 pm.
What I like about my oncologist is that she never rushes but will patiently and thoroughly answer any question I have. She answers every call on her mobile phone and will never say "I'm with some one, I'll ring you back." She addresses her patients as if they are intelligent and worth her time.
It's Nicky who later observes afterwards that my oncologist must lead a life of barely holding it together. Her shirt is creased, her hair barely tended, her face free of make up. These frivolous concerns must be unimportant in a world where your job is to keep people alive but, we bet. she also has to do the cooking, cleaning and laundry at home.
As it is, I have a very informative conversation with Dr Choo, and it's helpful that Nicky is there as my sister has an avid mind and a great curiosity for everything.
Firstly, I want to know about my menopause symptoms, what else to expect. Here is what I'm told.
Menopause mainly comprises the symptoms of hot flushes, mood swings, the loss of bone density (over time), increasing issues with vascular health (i.e. cholesterol) and vaginal dryness.
Obviously, each of these symptoms has ramifications of its own so I'm concerned about how long they last.
Dr Choo explains the persistency of symptoms varies from woman to woman and is dependent on the amount of oestrogen that remains in the system after treatment is over. In other words, it's the luck of the draw.
My mother sailed through menopause so I'm hoping it'll be the same for me.
The great news I take out from this is that, while menopause symptoms are intensified in women undergoing chemo, the whole process will be substantially shortened compared to 'normal' based on my age.
One other good effect of this is that I learn that my platelets are actually up! Yeah! As a chronic anaemic, it is good to know that my poor red blood cells finally have a chance to regroup and make friends with each other.
Antarctica is now officially barren (fingers crossed!) and the overall effect on my eco system may result in more energy in the future.
I ask Dr Choo how long drugs stay in my system, when I can expect other side effects to ease. She tells me that the drugs are expunged from the system fairly soon after treatment but the effects will hang around 2-3 weeks after my final chemo.
Other side effects, such as fatigue may take up to four months to abate.
We move on to the vexing issue of my continued and chronic nausea. Dr Choo says I have an 'anticipatory response'. We discuss possible other interventions, such as psychology. I ask her for a drug I was told about that you can take before you actually arrive at the chemo centre to pre empt the nausea and she writes me a prescription.
I should be done now, but I want to talk about my breast reconstruction and my options. I am thinking of having the other breast removed completely and then waiting a while to heal completely before worrying about perfecting my boobs.
Who needs boobs when you're dealing with vaginal dryness for god's sake!
Nicky is keen to know whether having both breasts off reduces the chance of recurrence, why, after chemotherapy and radiation it is necessary and so on.
What I surmise is that oncologists see every combination and permutation of cases, and of course, in some, recurrence does occur in the other breast.
In my case, I'm not so much concerned about recurrence, but I hate being unysmmetrical.
You have no idea how hideous a single, low hanging Double-D breast looks on its own. It's like that last withering mango that not even the bats are interested in. It's like that lone sock, left on the washing line. You know the one? It's usually discoloured and has a hole in the toe. It's the where you know the matching pair is missing and you wonder how long you will leave it there before you can make the effort of reaching up and unclipping the clothes peg?
Dr Choo tells me something I didn't know before: chemotherapy is only effective in the event that there are malignant cells present. So yes folks, all of the shit in my body could be a complete waste of time. A bit like shooting fish don't you think?
Anyway, that's basically why the norm is to attack cancer on several levels. You can never be too careful.
We should be done but after years of interviewing people, I can't help myself. I ask Dr Choo if her job ever depresses her.
I'm surprised at the depth of her answer as she goes to great lengths to explain the motivations of an oncologist. She talks about the importance of leaving her emotions at the office, respecting people's wishes and the fact that ultimately her job comes down to the "privilege" of helping people cope with the ramifications of their disease - i.e. carking it.
I expect it's a well practised spiel and I'd love to ask her more questions but people are waiting. Between Nicky and I, the poor woman could be stuck in her office answering questions until next Christmas (although, come to think of it, according to the Mayans, there ain't gonna be a Christmas this year).
When we leave, I am still feeling squeamish. I realise that even going within a mile of Greenslopes Hospital makes me feel like chucking. My stomach is churning and I feel truly vile. Almost as vile as when I listen to any version of the "Hokey Pokey"... that's what it's all about!
Nicky drops me at home and as I go through my front gate, I check the mailbox.
Inside is a small, book-sized parcel addressed to me. It's wrapped in waxy paper and has a white string tied around it and is covered in stamps.
Inside I find a special Sri Lankan cake (very time consuming to make) called a Love Cake. It's from old family friends, Moira and Tanya. There are a few ants clinging to the side like Indians on a rail siding, but I am really chuffed. I love love cake. In fact, I love, love, love love cake (in which cashew nuts and semolina form main ingredients).
Within minutes of arriving through my front door, Al has dinner on the table. God Bless my man!
An hour later, Craig picks me up and I go to a meeting. (I'm working on a political campaign for my friend, Karen William, who is running for Mayor, and things have started to become nasty).
It's actually a funny night because, at the end, we have to record a jingle.
I get home late, I have to say still feeling bloody awful. By 12.30 pm I still can't sleep so I take a sleeping pill.
After just five hours sleep, I'm now awake.
This morning I'll be baking some cupcakes for a funeral tomorrow. A 10-year-old girl, Chloe, in my nieces' class at Sheldon College, died on Christmas Eve, after a short battle with a brain tumour.
I think about her grieving family.
I think how little time some of us are given.
I think: I have nothing to complain about.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Chemo 3
The half-way mark for my chemo sessions arrive and today Al and I wake to a rain sodden world where the loud thuds of rain have been unrelenting through the night.
I wake several times, partly because of the large water intake that is recommended the day before chemo - you'd think I had prostrate problems! - and partly because I'm an easily disturbed sleeped and the rain drops on our wooden roof can sound like crazy marsupials on the chase.
Consequently I'm unrefreshed when I awake at 5.30 am, much earlier than I have been waking more recently. I'm not feeling afraid today. Earlier this week I had an epiphany. I decided that the only way to get through the shitty bits of life is to replace fear or anger or denial... with curiosity. If this is a 'journey', the true adventurer goes forth with a desire to know how it will be, how it all turns out, and importantly, what story I will have told when I reach the end. That final full stop. Fear on the other hand, achieves nothing.
While my fatigue is not a great start to the day, it's also not auspicious that last night, just before I went to sleep, my little laptop threw a hissy fit. In the morning Al gives me the bad news that my hard disc is unretrievable. We need the Mac doctor! So my machine, with my life's creative and professional outpourings of late also need medical attention. We are both off for some professional troubleshooting today. Hope the news is good for both of us...
Today the two boys, Harry and Ben are coming with us, the three of them to continue onto the man pad in town where hopefully further progress will be made on the tardiest refurbishment project we've had. With any luck it'll be finished in time for his new Uni year.
We leave a little later as intended and in the car, Nim texts to say she's already arrived. You see, today, my little entourage of supporters has increased by one to 4. So my special new friend is to meet my special old besties. Given the squeeziness of the booth, Janet offers to ditch if space is an issue. But its not! We can make space.
After I arrive, Lindar and Tracey arrive early too so the whole team including Al, and the boys chaperone us to the tiny cubicle. I think the nursing team are relieved that 7 are not to be squeezed in. Maybe we could arrange a Guinness Book of World Records session one time. Just to push the envelope? Anyone in?
Once again, Lindar and Tracey give me a gift (Soap and perfume!), and Nim has already delivered a store of her famous Baklava for the staff. Janet will arrive a little later, also bearing gifts. She will give me some lovely lotions but especially, she will give me a medallion dipped in the waters of Lourdes and was given to her years ago by a kind lady found Janet feeling sad about some events in her life. She had said that it had served her well, and gave it to Janet with the words that 'whatever her problems were would disappear' and that 'one day she would pass it on to someone else in who needed its helping powers'. So you see, even before we learned the words 'pay if forward', this is exactly how the kind and the humane have worked among us. Paying forward their good fortune, their answered prayers, the support they had. How good are my friends! I chide them and say they will be banned from my next chemo session if they keep bringing me these presents. I think my threat falls on deaf ears. But boy! I'm getting lots of presents!
Once I am seated, I am immediatley approached by a lovely nurse, Mel, who started nursing in 1968 and seems confident and professional. The cannula is inserted almost painlessly (after 2 goes). She is calm, positive, soothing. She demonstrates her caring nature immediately when she lugs 2 additional chairs for my friends. (That's all that can fit, so one must use a stool). I apologise for the clan but she says they welcome visitors.
Mel wastes little time in getting down to business.
This time when the Adramyacin enters my veins I start to feel a bit teary. I'm remembering the negativity and depression I briefly encountered in this phase last time. It is not a space I want to return to but what to do? I am reliably informed that emotional health is a lot less resilient than physical health. Joy.
After the Taxotere, I realise I'm feeling nauseous. I am told that, since I was one of those pathetic suckers who endured NINE MONTHS of non-stop morning sickness, this is quite a common scenario.
A call is made up to my oncologist and voila! Two pills (desolved under the tongue) and one injection are produced.
I am also told I will now have to come back on Saturday for another injection and some saline. Later Dr Choo will explain that this is to break the brain's association of the treatment with nausea. Apparently, it can be mind over matter, with the sneaky inclusion of some drug therapy.
All the while my four beautiful friends cover a litany of subjects that may exhaust the unprepared. Julia Gillard, Kevin Rudd, Celebrity Apprentice and that cow Deni Hynes, pet dragon lizards who are loyal and loving we're told, pet mice who bite, why my best attributes are my nice bald head, and my very large uterus (but I don't like to boast). We talk about casesarians and the relationship to large fatherly heads, births, deaths and marriages. We discuss my mum and dad's latest invention: a silicon steamer. We discuss Metropole, Goerge Orwell, and Leni Riefenstahl. We talk about travelling. We talk about how people can be surprising. We discuss cross cultural communication: Nim's mother who had no word for 'collander' but managed to get what she wanted by saying: "Round thing take water away, spaghetti stays" and was less successful when she wanted that Lamb Leg and slapped her hind quarter to indicate said meaty cut followed by a gesture that may been construed as 'How much you got'. Instead she scored a wolf whistle and an appraisal of her assets.
And I shared the time when my sister Nicky, me and a friend Sue, spent a couple of weeks in Andros, in Greece, where Sue had some evil intentions with her newly discoverd beau - er hem - Adonis. (I later hung out with Hercules and Sophocles). We found a dinky little pharmacopia where first Sue attempted somewhat pathetically to indicate she wanted some condoms. "Condoms' Con-Doms" she attempted uselessly varying pitch and tone. It wasn't until Nicky went to work that cut-through was achieved. She adopted the lascivious pose of a dirty old man and proceeded to demonstrate 'Man' - a left finger thrusted energetically in a right finger hooked in a ring to indicate a hole which she labelled 'Woman' - a move that left so little to the imagination, I had to scream, "No Nicky, it's too much". At which point the little old storekeeper, foraged among his stores of several products past their use-by-date - produced a small packet and yelled. "Aah! Prophylacticos!" Further embarrassment was therefore avoided as the next stage in this interaction was surely going to be me taking the missionary position on top of Nicky in a bid to furhter dramatise the normal situation for the product we so desperately wanted, Sue by now slinking outside so mortified we did feel a little mollified. But only a little.
Our tales draw peals of laughter when one nurse pops her head into ask what we've put in our coffees, as they want some :)) Not quite "Harry Met Sally" but real laugher is better than those fake orgasms, Sally. Yes, yes, yes! It is!
So next time, I'm going to take my guitar and Janet and I will give them a rendition of the only song we can sing together, that old chestnt, "Wooden Heart". Perhaps I can convince Nim to rock on her smooth bellydancing moves. Just you watch out nursies, you ain't seen nothing yet :)
The nausea abates after I eat some (hospital supplied) sandwiches and have a ginger ale. I wonder of the wisdom of these choices until I finally realise I do feel much better.
Later I go off for my ritual meeting with Dr Choo who is heading back to Penang for a family holiday and will miss my next chemo session. I'll have to see her again afterwards so she can check my neutrophils (apparently a little low today).
And so in this way my day concludes, in much the way as did my last chemo session. Good friends taking my mind off the bits I really hate about it all. The needles, the drugs and what they will do to me in the next 10 days.
And again, there is that mysterious alchemy, of how bad experiences are transformed, by the people you choose to have around you, their attitudes affecting mine, and just being comfortable enough with them - all four - to be able cry if I need to, knowing one if not all will hold my hand at some stage because they know that under my jokes and humour, I am now anxious about the next 10 days when I will be largely horizontal, bored, retching, angry, fatigued and alone.
Al and the boys pick Nim and I up from the Hospital. I find myself drifting off to sleep on Nim's shoulder as one of the drugs causes drowsyness.
It is just a good thing that I have made the most of the good days behind me.
I'll be focussing on those bright spots I have mentioned before.
For they are the things that illuminate my way forward: these are the things I focus on - a normal life, the support of my friends and family, walks with my dog, a nice home cooked meal and those thing I have been grateful for all my life: how lucky I am to be me! I won the lottery the day I was born - and with all the shit and pain and disappointment and struggle, all the closed doors, the near misses, the death defying moments, the cul-de sacs, the bad decisions, the losses and humiliations - how great it's been, all of it.
And this evening, another bright spot sparkles. Harry has invited 20 mates over for his own Christmas do. This means my children are living a normal, social life. It's another thing to be grateful for: healthy, happy, confident kids who can host a party like their Mumsy on a whim. That's the spirit!
Already I'm a winner, so chemo - do your best - you won't bring me down.
I wake several times, partly because of the large water intake that is recommended the day before chemo - you'd think I had prostrate problems! - and partly because I'm an easily disturbed sleeped and the rain drops on our wooden roof can sound like crazy marsupials on the chase.
Consequently I'm unrefreshed when I awake at 5.30 am, much earlier than I have been waking more recently. I'm not feeling afraid today. Earlier this week I had an epiphany. I decided that the only way to get through the shitty bits of life is to replace fear or anger or denial... with curiosity. If this is a 'journey', the true adventurer goes forth with a desire to know how it will be, how it all turns out, and importantly, what story I will have told when I reach the end. That final full stop. Fear on the other hand, achieves nothing.
While my fatigue is not a great start to the day, it's also not auspicious that last night, just before I went to sleep, my little laptop threw a hissy fit. In the morning Al gives me the bad news that my hard disc is unretrievable. We need the Mac doctor! So my machine, with my life's creative and professional outpourings of late also need medical attention. We are both off for some professional troubleshooting today. Hope the news is good for both of us...
Today the two boys, Harry and Ben are coming with us, the three of them to continue onto the man pad in town where hopefully further progress will be made on the tardiest refurbishment project we've had. With any luck it'll be finished in time for his new Uni year.
We leave a little later as intended and in the car, Nim texts to say she's already arrived. You see, today, my little entourage of supporters has increased by one to 4. So my special new friend is to meet my special old besties. Given the squeeziness of the booth, Janet offers to ditch if space is an issue. But its not! We can make space.
After I arrive, Lindar and Tracey arrive early too so the whole team including Al, and the boys chaperone us to the tiny cubicle. I think the nursing team are relieved that 7 are not to be squeezed in. Maybe we could arrange a Guinness Book of World Records session one time. Just to push the envelope? Anyone in?
Once again, Lindar and Tracey give me a gift (Soap and perfume!), and Nim has already delivered a store of her famous Baklava for the staff. Janet will arrive a little later, also bearing gifts. She will give me some lovely lotions but especially, she will give me a medallion dipped in the waters of Lourdes and was given to her years ago by a kind lady found Janet feeling sad about some events in her life. She had said that it had served her well, and gave it to Janet with the words that 'whatever her problems were would disappear' and that 'one day she would pass it on to someone else in who needed its helping powers'. So you see, even before we learned the words 'pay if forward', this is exactly how the kind and the humane have worked among us. Paying forward their good fortune, their answered prayers, the support they had. How good are my friends! I chide them and say they will be banned from my next chemo session if they keep bringing me these presents. I think my threat falls on deaf ears. But boy! I'm getting lots of presents!
Once I am seated, I am immediatley approached by a lovely nurse, Mel, who started nursing in 1968 and seems confident and professional. The cannula is inserted almost painlessly (after 2 goes). She is calm, positive, soothing. She demonstrates her caring nature immediately when she lugs 2 additional chairs for my friends. (That's all that can fit, so one must use a stool). I apologise for the clan but she says they welcome visitors.
Mel wastes little time in getting down to business.
This time when the Adramyacin enters my veins I start to feel a bit teary. I'm remembering the negativity and depression I briefly encountered in this phase last time. It is not a space I want to return to but what to do? I am reliably informed that emotional health is a lot less resilient than physical health. Joy.
After the Taxotere, I realise I'm feeling nauseous. I am told that, since I was one of those pathetic suckers who endured NINE MONTHS of non-stop morning sickness, this is quite a common scenario.
A call is made up to my oncologist and voila! Two pills (desolved under the tongue) and one injection are produced.
I am also told I will now have to come back on Saturday for another injection and some saline. Later Dr Choo will explain that this is to break the brain's association of the treatment with nausea. Apparently, it can be mind over matter, with the sneaky inclusion of some drug therapy.
All the while my four beautiful friends cover a litany of subjects that may exhaust the unprepared. Julia Gillard, Kevin Rudd, Celebrity Apprentice and that cow Deni Hynes, pet dragon lizards who are loyal and loving we're told, pet mice who bite, why my best attributes are my nice bald head, and my very large uterus (but I don't like to boast). We talk about casesarians and the relationship to large fatherly heads, births, deaths and marriages. We discuss my mum and dad's latest invention: a silicon steamer. We discuss Metropole, Goerge Orwell, and Leni Riefenstahl. We talk about travelling. We talk about how people can be surprising. We discuss cross cultural communication: Nim's mother who had no word for 'collander' but managed to get what she wanted by saying: "Round thing take water away, spaghetti stays" and was less successful when she wanted that Lamb Leg and slapped her hind quarter to indicate said meaty cut followed by a gesture that may been construed as 'How much you got'. Instead she scored a wolf whistle and an appraisal of her assets.
And I shared the time when my sister Nicky, me and a friend Sue, spent a couple of weeks in Andros, in Greece, where Sue had some evil intentions with her newly discoverd beau - er hem - Adonis. (I later hung out with Hercules and Sophocles). We found a dinky little pharmacopia where first Sue attempted somewhat pathetically to indicate she wanted some condoms. "Condoms' Con-Doms" she attempted uselessly varying pitch and tone. It wasn't until Nicky went to work that cut-through was achieved. She adopted the lascivious pose of a dirty old man and proceeded to demonstrate 'Man' - a left finger thrusted energetically in a right finger hooked in a ring to indicate a hole which she labelled 'Woman' - a move that left so little to the imagination, I had to scream, "No Nicky, it's too much". At which point the little old storekeeper, foraged among his stores of several products past their use-by-date - produced a small packet and yelled. "Aah! Prophylacticos!" Further embarrassment was therefore avoided as the next stage in this interaction was surely going to be me taking the missionary position on top of Nicky in a bid to furhter dramatise the normal situation for the product we so desperately wanted, Sue by now slinking outside so mortified we did feel a little mollified. But only a little.
Our tales draw peals of laughter when one nurse pops her head into ask what we've put in our coffees, as they want some :)) Not quite "Harry Met Sally" but real laugher is better than those fake orgasms, Sally. Yes, yes, yes! It is!
So next time, I'm going to take my guitar and Janet and I will give them a rendition of the only song we can sing together, that old chestnt, "Wooden Heart". Perhaps I can convince Nim to rock on her smooth bellydancing moves. Just you watch out nursies, you ain't seen nothing yet :)
The nausea abates after I eat some (hospital supplied) sandwiches and have a ginger ale. I wonder of the wisdom of these choices until I finally realise I do feel much better.
Later I go off for my ritual meeting with Dr Choo who is heading back to Penang for a family holiday and will miss my next chemo session. I'll have to see her again afterwards so she can check my neutrophils (apparently a little low today).
And so in this way my day concludes, in much the way as did my last chemo session. Good friends taking my mind off the bits I really hate about it all. The needles, the drugs and what they will do to me in the next 10 days.
And again, there is that mysterious alchemy, of how bad experiences are transformed, by the people you choose to have around you, their attitudes affecting mine, and just being comfortable enough with them - all four - to be able cry if I need to, knowing one if not all will hold my hand at some stage because they know that under my jokes and humour, I am now anxious about the next 10 days when I will be largely horizontal, bored, retching, angry, fatigued and alone.
Al and the boys pick Nim and I up from the Hospital. I find myself drifting off to sleep on Nim's shoulder as one of the drugs causes drowsyness.
It is just a good thing that I have made the most of the good days behind me.
I'll be focussing on those bright spots I have mentioned before.
For they are the things that illuminate my way forward: these are the things I focus on - a normal life, the support of my friends and family, walks with my dog, a nice home cooked meal and those thing I have been grateful for all my life: how lucky I am to be me! I won the lottery the day I was born - and with all the shit and pain and disappointment and struggle, all the closed doors, the near misses, the death defying moments, the cul-de sacs, the bad decisions, the losses and humiliations - how great it's been, all of it.
And this evening, another bright spot sparkles. Harry has invited 20 mates over for his own Christmas do. This means my children are living a normal, social life. It's another thing to be grateful for: healthy, happy, confident kids who can host a party like their Mumsy on a whim. That's the spirit!
Already I'm a winner, so chemo - do your best - you won't bring me down.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Chemo 2
62 days after diagnosis I am home after my second chemo treatment. It's been a fairly stressful 24-hour period.
Yesterday I went for the routine blood test but I had the staff from hell - two women who couldn't find a vein and jabbed me 3 times, bruising me and finally managing barely a millilitre. I was traumatised as I felt trained monkeys would have done a better job.
As a result of this manhandling, I was anxious about the state of my veins and whether the chemo would go well. Especially the Adramycin which can cause severe tissue damage if it escapes.
Last night I slept poorly too, the insomnia exacerbated by heavy rain outside - and the fact I was expecting Harry home at midnight but the rascal changed his plans and didn't tell me!
When I wake up this morning I'm already a little exhausted. Still, Al and I leave in good time and get to the Cyril Gilbert Centre early.
Strangely, I am looking forward to the experience, NOT because of toxic chemical injections but because all three of my besties, Janet, Lindar and Tracey are ALL coming to sit with me.
I am looking forward to seeing them and it's the only thing I anticipate with pleasure.
On arrival I am led to Suite 20 and hooray! My nurse for the day is Ursula, who was the breast care nurse educator I mentioned in an earlier blog. She is the one who has battled breast cancer herself and I note, this gives her incredible empathy as she ministers to my needs.
Chatty, open and friendly, Ursula understands the need for positive chat, good information and creating confidence in the procedure.
Therefore, THIS time, the insertion of the cannula, despite the dramas of yesterday, goes without a hitch. One attempt only! Ursula places hot packs on my arms to ease my veins up. I've drunk copious amounts of water the day before to help the process along. So all is good!
Here is a picture of Ursula at work:
It hurts like buggery though and Ursula shows me how she knows the cannula is well inserted and expects no problems. She is awesome! From wo to go, she is synced into my concerns and knows exactly what to say and do to make this experience less stressful.
Ursula explains that the clear fluid that is injected first up contains steroids which are anti nauseas. This is the bugger that causes fluid retention, insomnia and increased appetite.
Ursula then tells me to let her know if I suffer any... she can't find the word. I suggest: "Dopey? Sleepy? Grumpy?" She gets it and says. "And no, not Sneezy".
"Aah" I jest, "The seven dwarfs of side effects." :))
She laughs. "Oh I can see you'll have no problems, you'll do great." I like to hear that.
Then the first of my visitors, Lindar arrives and Al decides to head off to complete the job at the Manpad. Lindar gives me a present of a large jewel that catches the light. Lovely.
Let me tell you a little about Lindar who I met at the tender age of 21. I had just started work as the Speechwriter to former Lord Mayor Sallyanne Atkinson, and Lindarrrrrrrr (as I call her, in gentle mockery of that unique extra 'r') started as the LM's Protocol Manager. Over the years, Lindar and I have shared some great laughs together while all along, I've known a woman with an incredible story to tell. Let's put it this way, she's a formidable style queen and always immaculately presented, yes. But Lindarrrr has Character with a capital C. In other words, she's had her ups and downs, her measure of life's little kicks and disappointments and has faced them with what I can only describe as equanimity and grace - perhaps too much grace!
Amongst her travails - and I hope she won't mind me sharing this - Lindar lost her beloved Dad to mesothelioma at the age of 55. I'm guessing she would have been about 38 years old then and looking back, I do feel like a pretty cruddy friend because I'm not sure I was there enough for her then. It was a terrible event that has made a deep imprint on my Lindar and so, now in the context of her profound care for me now, I am a bit pissed off at my 34 year old self for not being a little bit more on-the-ball (although, admittedly, I had a two month old baby at the time the brunt of this took place).
Just how much Lindar cares is revealed today. When Ursula begins to carefully insert the Adramycin, the "Red Devil", Lindar senses my anxiety. She grabs my hand and I realise she is CRYING! I don't know what to say so I joke about it.
"I seem to make lots of people cry these days. It's okay."
Our little moment is broken when now Tracey arrives, looking, I have to say, bloody fabulous. Held up by traffic and apologetic about being late, I'm touched that she has hurried to be by my side.
Tracey gave me a book as present last time, but she gives me ANOTHER one, beautifully wrapped and especially procured after much shopping around from the book depository. It's about how a woman dealing with breast cancer reads her way to recovery. As mutual book lovers, this is a book full of love and meaning.
Then Janet arrives after spending 25 minutes in a carpark on Moggill Road to get to me. She's taken the day off work especially and comes bearing a present that I think reflects the unexpected wonders of this day: chemo in my veins but the fears magically taken away as I've focussed instead on sharing stories and laughs with three of those of my many friends who have chosen to show me that extra care.
Janet brought me this 80s headdress, wrested from the bowels of her chest of beloved memorabilia. What do you reckon, mun? I be haulin' sum good Ufrikun mojo, ja?
But here is what else she brought. It's a letter I once wrote... to Janet and Bob's dog, Pete the Pointer, with who I shared a special bond. I loved that dog and here is a photo to prove it.
I have no clear recollection of when or why I sent this letter to Pete. I am guessing it was some time in my single years, late 20s perhaps. All I can say is re-reading it, I was laughing so hard I could barely recite it aloud:
If laughter is the best medicine, today I have it in litres. The time flies. I have good endorphins floating through my veins along with potent medicines. How different it is to what I have been expecting - nay, dreading!
As we prepare to leave, we take this photo which Janet later requests so she can show her kids, who are also worrying about my welfare. (Janet's 15 year old Georgia, even bought me a turban!)
As Janet explains, as only Janet can, in an email this evening: "I want to show them how fabulous you looked, reclining, like the Lady of Camelias, some heroine in a Victorian novella -or as it happens, a teen vampire romance, given the things sticking out of you." Here it is:
After a quick visit to see Dr Choo, Al has come to pick me up. In the car coming home, I'm quiet. I have terrible heartburn (thank you Taxotere) and I feel furry headed (thank you insomnia). It's different to the first time. I'm not chatty.
I want to go to sleep so I lie down as soon as I can, taking one of the tablets I've been prescribed for this sought of unpleasantness. Al puts on the meditation tape (a gift from Lorelei).
I doze but I don't feel comfortable so I get up to write this blog while Al has a snooze.
Ness calls me to find out how I'm going. I really appreciate her calls and tell her so. I know she's a busy working business woman these days. I don't expect much to know she is a dear and caring friend. So I tell her I love her and then: "I'm getting teary eyed so bugger off now." She laughs and we hang up.
Louisa calls so we go for a 4 km stroll. I'm pleased with myself! It's pleasant as we discuss a planned trip to Nepal next year - when I'm better.
(The steroids apparently have a kind of feel-good flow-on effect. I suppose I'm feeling it now.)
When I get home, Al's made me a margarita! I'm supposed to have taste changes but you know what? Stuff it! It tastes good.
Finally, there's a dinner of my mum's special Pittu and my favourite Chicken Curry (delivered yesterday).
What can I say. Today I have experience perhaps the greatest alchemy.
A day of potential terror has been transformed, by single acts of love and friendship, into a day of happiness.
There is nothing more I could need.
Yesterday I went for the routine blood test but I had the staff from hell - two women who couldn't find a vein and jabbed me 3 times, bruising me and finally managing barely a millilitre. I was traumatised as I felt trained monkeys would have done a better job.
As a result of this manhandling, I was anxious about the state of my veins and whether the chemo would go well. Especially the Adramycin which can cause severe tissue damage if it escapes.
Last night I slept poorly too, the insomnia exacerbated by heavy rain outside - and the fact I was expecting Harry home at midnight but the rascal changed his plans and didn't tell me!
When I wake up this morning I'm already a little exhausted. Still, Al and I leave in good time and get to the Cyril Gilbert Centre early.
Strangely, I am looking forward to the experience, NOT because of toxic chemical injections but because all three of my besties, Janet, Lindar and Tracey are ALL coming to sit with me.
I am looking forward to seeing them and it's the only thing I anticipate with pleasure.
On arrival I am led to Suite 20 and hooray! My nurse for the day is Ursula, who was the breast care nurse educator I mentioned in an earlier blog. She is the one who has battled breast cancer herself and I note, this gives her incredible empathy as she ministers to my needs.
Chatty, open and friendly, Ursula understands the need for positive chat, good information and creating confidence in the procedure.
Therefore, THIS time, the insertion of the cannula, despite the dramas of yesterday, goes without a hitch. One attempt only! Ursula places hot packs on my arms to ease my veins up. I've drunk copious amounts of water the day before to help the process along. So all is good!
Here is a picture of Ursula at work:
It hurts like buggery though and Ursula shows me how she knows the cannula is well inserted and expects no problems. She is awesome! From wo to go, she is synced into my concerns and knows exactly what to say and do to make this experience less stressful.
Ursula explains that the clear fluid that is injected first up contains steroids which are anti nauseas. This is the bugger that causes fluid retention, insomnia and increased appetite.
Ursula then tells me to let her know if I suffer any... she can't find the word. I suggest: "Dopey? Sleepy? Grumpy?" She gets it and says. "And no, not Sneezy".
"Aah" I jest, "The seven dwarfs of side effects." :))
She laughs. "Oh I can see you'll have no problems, you'll do great." I like to hear that.
Then the first of my visitors, Lindar arrives and Al decides to head off to complete the job at the Manpad. Lindar gives me a present of a large jewel that catches the light. Lovely.
Let me tell you a little about Lindar who I met at the tender age of 21. I had just started work as the Speechwriter to former Lord Mayor Sallyanne Atkinson, and Lindarrrrrrrr (as I call her, in gentle mockery of that unique extra 'r') started as the LM's Protocol Manager. Over the years, Lindar and I have shared some great laughs together while all along, I've known a woman with an incredible story to tell. Let's put it this way, she's a formidable style queen and always immaculately presented, yes. But Lindarrrr has Character with a capital C. In other words, she's had her ups and downs, her measure of life's little kicks and disappointments and has faced them with what I can only describe as equanimity and grace - perhaps too much grace!
Amongst her travails - and I hope she won't mind me sharing this - Lindar lost her beloved Dad to mesothelioma at the age of 55. I'm guessing she would have been about 38 years old then and looking back, I do feel like a pretty cruddy friend because I'm not sure I was there enough for her then. It was a terrible event that has made a deep imprint on my Lindar and so, now in the context of her profound care for me now, I am a bit pissed off at my 34 year old self for not being a little bit more on-the-ball (although, admittedly, I had a two month old baby at the time the brunt of this took place).
Just how much Lindar cares is revealed today. When Ursula begins to carefully insert the Adramycin, the "Red Devil", Lindar senses my anxiety. She grabs my hand and I realise she is CRYING! I don't know what to say so I joke about it.
"I seem to make lots of people cry these days. It's okay."
Our little moment is broken when now Tracey arrives, looking, I have to say, bloody fabulous. Held up by traffic and apologetic about being late, I'm touched that she has hurried to be by my side.
Tracey gave me a book as present last time, but she gives me ANOTHER one, beautifully wrapped and especially procured after much shopping around from the book depository. It's about how a woman dealing with breast cancer reads her way to recovery. As mutual book lovers, this is a book full of love and meaning.
Then Janet arrives after spending 25 minutes in a carpark on Moggill Road to get to me. She's taken the day off work especially and comes bearing a present that I think reflects the unexpected wonders of this day: chemo in my veins but the fears magically taken away as I've focussed instead on sharing stories and laughs with three of those of my many friends who have chosen to show me that extra care.
Janet brought me this 80s headdress, wrested from the bowels of her chest of beloved memorabilia. What do you reckon, mun? I be haulin' sum good Ufrikun mojo, ja?
But here is what else she brought. It's a letter I once wrote... to Janet and Bob's dog, Pete the Pointer, with who I shared a special bond. I loved that dog and here is a photo to prove it.
I have no clear recollection of when or why I sent this letter to Pete. I am guessing it was some time in my single years, late 20s perhaps. All I can say is re-reading it, I was laughing so hard I could barely recite it aloud:
If laughter is the best medicine, today I have it in litres. The time flies. I have good endorphins floating through my veins along with potent medicines. How different it is to what I have been expecting - nay, dreading!
As we prepare to leave, we take this photo which Janet later requests so she can show her kids, who are also worrying about my welfare. (Janet's 15 year old Georgia, even bought me a turban!)
As Janet explains, as only Janet can, in an email this evening: "I want to show them how fabulous you looked, reclining, like the Lady of Camelias, some heroine in a Victorian novella -or as it happens, a teen vampire romance, given the things sticking out of you." Here it is:
After a quick visit to see Dr Choo, Al has come to pick me up. In the car coming home, I'm quiet. I have terrible heartburn (thank you Taxotere) and I feel furry headed (thank you insomnia). It's different to the first time. I'm not chatty.
I want to go to sleep so I lie down as soon as I can, taking one of the tablets I've been prescribed for this sought of unpleasantness. Al puts on the meditation tape (a gift from Lorelei).
I doze but I don't feel comfortable so I get up to write this blog while Al has a snooze.
Ness calls me to find out how I'm going. I really appreciate her calls and tell her so. I know she's a busy working business woman these days. I don't expect much to know she is a dear and caring friend. So I tell her I love her and then: "I'm getting teary eyed so bugger off now." She laughs and we hang up.
Louisa calls so we go for a 4 km stroll. I'm pleased with myself! It's pleasant as we discuss a planned trip to Nepal next year - when I'm better.
(The steroids apparently have a kind of feel-good flow-on effect. I suppose I'm feeling it now.)
When I get home, Al's made me a margarita! I'm supposed to have taste changes but you know what? Stuff it! It tastes good.
Finally, there's a dinner of my mum's special Pittu and my favourite Chicken Curry (delivered yesterday).
What can I say. Today I have experience perhaps the greatest alchemy.
A day of potential terror has been transformed, by single acts of love and friendship, into a day of happiness.
There is nothing more I could need.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Hair 2
As anticipated, three days after the initial fall-out, a Sunday, I have my morning shower to wash my hair. My follicles dislodge at an alarming rate of knots as I smooth my palm over my scalp.
I decide to see how much will come out and persist with the smoothing, a part of my brain repenting the waste of water but what to do? Chris has told me that this is a tested repertoire.
My shoulders are covered in hair and bits are all over my face so I have to spit them out of my mouth. The dislodged hair collects at the plug hole forming an interesting pattern. It's pretty disgusting really:
Here is what it looks like:
When I emerge, I believe I look like a baby orang-utan - what do you think?
A baby orang-utan
Me
It's embarrassing to report but you need to know that it's not just the head on my hair that has started to defoliate. There's a bit of DIY Brazilian happening in that part of my bodily geography I shall call 'Antarctica'.
Let's face it: the narrative of this illness is about the effects on a human body and I'm afraid, not everything about anatomy is pleasant.
'Antartica' itself has been the site of some strange developments of late as well. Unusual rivers occur out of season. There are remarkable deluges that are difficult to contain. Do you understand what I mean?
Part of me recognises what's happening. Chemotherapy is foisting me into menopause but this is no glacial shift. It is the sheaving of a continental shelf, a movement as massive as the separation of Laurasia and Gondawanaland. My Pangaea is being cleaved and reinvented.
As it is, I want to go to the shops, so I think I'll wear the wig, but the remaining hair still hurts like hell. I try a hat but that hurts too so in the end, I opt for a scarf.
The thing I notice is that I'm not self-conscious at all. I don't know why. I know I'm going bald, but all in all I seem to be handling it well.
That afternoon, Al and I are invited to the Neil's for drinks. The Baddileys are there and we have a lovely time, sipping wine with interesting conversation. No one comments on my scarf and I'm grateful that I am not required to reveal my shredding pate. (I tell you, I have classy friends!)
I have thought that 'Alopecia' sounds like a lovely girl's name, up there with 'Anesthesia' (wasn't she a daughter of the Tsar?) Soft, piquant, almost graceful. But the reality is, it's an unpleasant sight.
And so today, it is time, I realise for what is left on my scalp to be pruned and manicured. There is nothing that screams 'SICK!!!!' than a nearly-bald head.
Through the day I work on a painting.
Louisa comes to take me for a coffee.
I go for a 10 km walk, feeling the strongest and most normal I've felt for weeks.
I return home to dine on a fabulous Turkish meal, prepared by my beautiful friend Nim. (Today is her birthday, and she still found time to cook for me - even cutting the fruit salad into heart shaped pieces). Oh my god. Can I feel more blessed?
And then it is time.
I tell Ben that he can neaten up what's left and the boy runs off to grab the clippers. We go into the bathroom where Ben is chafing at the bit to do the deed.
As Al supervises, Ben gets to work and he is half way through before we realise: "Eek! Those aren't our hair clippers. It's the dog clippers". I realise that Spunky is observing the proceedings with a judgemental eye. No wonder!
Disgusted I dispatch Ben to get the human ones and, as the job progresses, I watch as I move from baby orang-utan to Mao Tse Tung to Egghead.
Here is barber Ben at work:
When he is finished, I reckon I look like a Choc-Vanilla Chup a Chup.
If only Deborah Kerr were alive we could romp around the room singing 'Shall we Dance'.
The amazing thing is that afterwards, Al does something unexpected. He puts his mane of hair forward and says "Go for it".
"NOooooo!" I shout. "You know how you are about your hair!" It's true. Throughout our marriage, Al has been obsessive about his hair style and, especially, containing the ravages of balding.
In fact, when we first met, he had this disgusting rat's tail which didn't last long once we got together - there was a ceremonial pruning that was universally applauded by his friends. (With one fell swoop of a pair of scissors, everyone of them acknowledged that Al had truly met the girl of their dreams... hahahaha).
So for Al to shave his hair is truly incredible.
We get to work with the clippers and I have to tell you, I haven't laughed so much in ages.
Al says: "Moral Support, Bronny!" And besides, he says, he's always been curious about what his head looks like.
But half way through, he observes that his Grandad shaved his head once too - and it never grew back.
It's true. Al's granddad was as bald as a badger. "Why didn't you tell me that!" I say. "I would have tried harder to stop you!"
But here's the thing. Once you start shaving your head, there is no going back. :))
Just look at Al shaving himself:
I see a remarkable resemblance to this picture of Spunky having HIS shave a few weeks ago. What do you think?
And so, here we are. Alan and I. On the night of our ritual shaving. It's a shame Harry has gone down the Coast or else we could have had a family pic:
What is there to say but: "Shall we dance?"
I decide to see how much will come out and persist with the smoothing, a part of my brain repenting the waste of water but what to do? Chris has told me that this is a tested repertoire.
My shoulders are covered in hair and bits are all over my face so I have to spit them out of my mouth. The dislodged hair collects at the plug hole forming an interesting pattern. It's pretty disgusting really:
Here is what it looks like:
When I emerge, I believe I look like a baby orang-utan - what do you think?
A baby orang-utan
Me
It's embarrassing to report but you need to know that it's not just the head on my hair that has started to defoliate. There's a bit of DIY Brazilian happening in that part of my bodily geography I shall call 'Antarctica'.
Let's face it: the narrative of this illness is about the effects on a human body and I'm afraid, not everything about anatomy is pleasant.
'Antartica' itself has been the site of some strange developments of late as well. Unusual rivers occur out of season. There are remarkable deluges that are difficult to contain. Do you understand what I mean?
Part of me recognises what's happening. Chemotherapy is foisting me into menopause but this is no glacial shift. It is the sheaving of a continental shelf, a movement as massive as the separation of Laurasia and Gondawanaland. My Pangaea is being cleaved and reinvented.
As it is, I want to go to the shops, so I think I'll wear the wig, but the remaining hair still hurts like hell. I try a hat but that hurts too so in the end, I opt for a scarf.
The thing I notice is that I'm not self-conscious at all. I don't know why. I know I'm going bald, but all in all I seem to be handling it well.
That afternoon, Al and I are invited to the Neil's for drinks. The Baddileys are there and we have a lovely time, sipping wine with interesting conversation. No one comments on my scarf and I'm grateful that I am not required to reveal my shredding pate. (I tell you, I have classy friends!)
I have thought that 'Alopecia' sounds like a lovely girl's name, up there with 'Anesthesia' (wasn't she a daughter of the Tsar?) Soft, piquant, almost graceful. But the reality is, it's an unpleasant sight.
And so today, it is time, I realise for what is left on my scalp to be pruned and manicured. There is nothing that screams 'SICK!!!!' than a nearly-bald head.
Through the day I work on a painting.
Louisa comes to take me for a coffee.
I go for a 10 km walk, feeling the strongest and most normal I've felt for weeks.
I return home to dine on a fabulous Turkish meal, prepared by my beautiful friend Nim. (Today is her birthday, and she still found time to cook for me - even cutting the fruit salad into heart shaped pieces). Oh my god. Can I feel more blessed?
And then it is time.
I tell Ben that he can neaten up what's left and the boy runs off to grab the clippers. We go into the bathroom where Ben is chafing at the bit to do the deed.
As Al supervises, Ben gets to work and he is half way through before we realise: "Eek! Those aren't our hair clippers. It's the dog clippers". I realise that Spunky is observing the proceedings with a judgemental eye. No wonder!
Disgusted I dispatch Ben to get the human ones and, as the job progresses, I watch as I move from baby orang-utan to Mao Tse Tung to Egghead.
Here is barber Ben at work:
When he is finished, I reckon I look like a Choc-Vanilla Chup a Chup.
If only Deborah Kerr were alive we could romp around the room singing 'Shall we Dance'.
The amazing thing is that afterwards, Al does something unexpected. He puts his mane of hair forward and says "Go for it".
"NOooooo!" I shout. "You know how you are about your hair!" It's true. Throughout our marriage, Al has been obsessive about his hair style and, especially, containing the ravages of balding.
In fact, when we first met, he had this disgusting rat's tail which didn't last long once we got together - there was a ceremonial pruning that was universally applauded by his friends. (With one fell swoop of a pair of scissors, everyone of them acknowledged that Al had truly met the girl of their dreams... hahahaha).
So for Al to shave his hair is truly incredible.
We get to work with the clippers and I have to tell you, I haven't laughed so much in ages.
Al says: "Moral Support, Bronny!" And besides, he says, he's always been curious about what his head looks like.
But half way through, he observes that his Grandad shaved his head once too - and it never grew back.
It's true. Al's granddad was as bald as a badger. "Why didn't you tell me that!" I say. "I would have tried harder to stop you!"
But here's the thing. Once you start shaving your head, there is no going back. :))
Just look at Al shaving himself:
I see a remarkable resemblance to this picture of Spunky having HIS shave a few weeks ago. What do you think?
And so, here we are. Alan and I. On the night of our ritual shaving. It's a shame Harry has gone down the Coast or else we could have had a family pic:
What is there to say but: "Shall we dance?"
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