Day 2: It's the first time through my treatment that I've managed to take my medicines in the right way so I wake feeling quite normal.
It's raining, with my own forecast: lightly squeamish with a chance of hot flushes.
It's a bleak kind of day, so I opt to stay in bed all day. Motivation is a bit low.
I get up when I hear Lee at the door, my angel bearing her caring nursey touch. The injection doesn't hurt much at all these days. I really must have got used to it.
Lee and I sit on the couch with a cup of tea and a piece of love cake. We talk about our trip to India, Nepal and Tibet. We are booking the first part of this on Tuesday. It's something to look forward to although I guess it's a bit of a bet. We are planning to go in October later this year and who knows what my story will be by then? Still, what is life without dreams.
After Lee leaves, Janet rings to see how I am. Nim phones too.
I go back to bed and watch "One Day" on Foxtel; Al and I play iPad Scrabble; We watch "Mean Girls 2" of all things. I take my medications and fall asleep.
Day 3: We have our house on the market and there's an inspection today. So I don't really have an option. I have to get up. It's raining on and off outside.
I tidy up what I can but I must say, it's a lot of effort for just half an hour. Two families look through.
Afterwards, Al and I decide to go to see the movie 'Hugo'. I meet Louisa there. The theatre is packed and all the while, my stomach is churning.
The nausea is pretty chronic today and frankly, I feel pretty vile.
I nearly doze of during the film which has some incredible sets but it's a bit like watching a very nice piece of paint dry, in my opinion - Moulin Rouge without the music.
Louisa comes home with me for a catch up. She's basically my 'regular hang-out buddy': someone I can be myself with without worrying about being particularly anything much. Someone I can be honest with and happily be completely unconstructive with. While we chat, I have a cup of hot 'rasam, a traditional Ceylonese tonic made from herbs and spices. My mum has recommended it to me to help tame the nausea. Alas, it's only a temporary relief.
What's different this time, seeing I'm upright, is that I actually cook dinner. I'm sure it's tasty but not for me.
I lie in bed afterwards watching the Nadal v Djokovic tennis final. But I am disinterested. I just want to sleep.
I drift off but am woken by Al offering me a banana and strawberry smoothie. I imagine it's nutritious and slowly sip it but it's a bad move as soon, I'm battling some bad heartburn.
Bugger. Still, with some effort, it settles and I drift off into a dreamless sleep.
Day 4: It's still overcast and I wonder if this is affecting my mood. I don't know how to explain it. I feel 'reduced'. There are bleak thoughts running around my head as I lounge in bed in the morning.
What gets me up is the gift I've made for Clodagh, my Facebook friend who lives in Dublin. I want to post it to her before the project gets completely old.
I go to the post office with a parcel that involved enough bubble wrap and sticky tape to satisfy a bondage queen's ultimate fantasy. I send it off with a prayer that it will arrive in one piece.
Then I go to the shops to buy a dress I saw for Karen. We are more or less the same size (my widening girth not withstanding) so if it looks good on me, I figure it'll look good on her. It was on special and I can imagine her wearing it. I also buy myself a couple of things. I know it's naughty but these days I keep thinking too often, that life is short. I've always thought that, actually. But somehow, these days, there's an element of truth to that idea.
Today I just keep thinking: "I just don't know. Whether any of this shit is really working. Who knows when my number's going to be up?" Maybe it's the weather? Maybe I'm just really tired of it all. Already. And I'm not even half way through the whole onerous process of what this seemingly endless treatment entails.
What to do but go for a walk. I walk for 8.5 kilometres, enjoying the fact that the sky is clearing and with it, my mood.
In the evening, Harry invites his girlfriend, Robyn, over for dinner and what's more, he cooks! We take the meal (san soy boy) to Ethel and George's to share. We have to make an effort to eat as a family these days, especially as George is so unwell.
Day 5: One thing I've decided with this illness is that I won't let it entirely shape my days. So today, I'm off to an art lesson. I'm really into my mixed media work and art has become a therapy for me.
My lesson is held at the local gallery, Yurara and on my way, I'm daydreaming so I overshoot the turnoff and have to hang a youie. It's typical these days. Planet La-La is the land I seem to frequent.
I spend a pleasant morning, preparing a canvass. I discover that my teacher, Gloria, had breast cancer 20 years before. She just had a one centimetre lump, discovered by accident, and had four perfectly good lymph nodes ripped out for no good reason. She suffered with lymph oedema for three years she said, and still has no feeling on one side of that arm. Cruel isn't it?
I leave a bit early because Janet comes down to visit. We have a simple chicken and salad on the back deck but I admit, it tastes a bit like eating packaging. The sun is out. There's a little breeze and Janet and I pass a lovely couple of hours.
It's actually really great because I learn some things about Janet's youth that I didn't know before. I have at least this to thank my illness for: that I am unpeeling some heretofore undiscovered layers in the people who so genuinely care about me that they will give me that most precious, wonderful thing that is 'time'.
Let me emphasise this. Janet lives in Bellbowrie. It's a good hour and a half by car in traffic I reckon. You know someone loves you when they will take the time, make the time.
As some guy called Syrus once said: "Prosperity makes friends, adversity tries them." It's true.
Not for the first time, I think about Chrissy and Jan and my other friends who have battled or ceded to disease and illness and how crap I was at it: being the friend they needed.
My friends are showing me how to express my compassion in ways that go beyond the words I so easily (perhaps too easily?) wield. It's never too late to learn.
When she leaves, I'm feeling quite squeamish so I lie down under the fan. I realise that my heart rate is quite rapid and I notice that the bruise from my episode on Friday is still quite dark on my arm.
I feel very green and there's that dark mood, palpating on the edges of my consciousness, like that rogue ember in the woodpile.
I rouse myself and go for a 6 km walk. I can't say it lifts my mood. People who know me well will be surprised at the kind of thoughts I have. Once again, I think about curling up in a ball. In fact, half way through the walk, I feel tired and I just want to sit down and cry.
But I don't.
I miss my old body. I miss feeling well.
In the evening I start a Rosamunde Pilcher novel I picked up from the Op Shop but my eyes have become quite bad with this treatment so I find it hard to actually physically read.
Ben comes in and watches 'Spongebob Squarepants' next to me and ends up falling asleep.
I feel sick so, once I get him off to bed, I take an anti nausea and go to bed early. Hey, I'm living the high life!
Day 6: It's humid today and my mouth tastes utterly disgusting still. When Al asks me what I want for breakfast, I order my usual scrambled eggs but ask him to season it heavily so I can taste something. No joy. It's tasteless!
Afterwards, I am rewarded with more heartburn. Is there no end to my pleasures.
Everyone leaves the house today, Al and Harry off to work on the Manpad in town, Ben off to school.
I know I have some work to do and make a half hearted start on the corporate profile I'm writing. But it's hard work in my condition.
I lie in bed and watch a bit of 'Red Dog' on Foxtel. But it's really bad. Dear God. Tell me that "Australian Comedy" hasn't become an irretrievable oxymoron.
Louisa rings and I decide to abort the movie. We go out for a coffee and cake at 'Harvest'. (Fuck it, life is short). It turns into a good outing because we bump into Lyndal and Maria.
Afterwards, let me come clean with my dirty little secret... Louisa and I go and see 'The Muppets' because that's the only thing she hasn't seen. (The girl lives at the movies). It's lame, okay I admit it, but it's so innocent, it's strangely uplifting.
In fact, 'The Muppets' is the first and only movie I ever watched on my own (back in the days when the Regent Theatre was still around). I figure that if there was ever a metaphor for LOSER it has to be someone watching 'The Muppets' on their own. Except maybe, watching reruns on 'Baywatch', in slow motion, on your own.
It's today that I start thinking about the big 'what if'... what if I skip the final treatment and wing it?
I don't know if it's the bruise on my arm, but I feel sick about going back to the Cyril Gilbert Centre. It's as if my experiences so far have so graphically informed my memory that I still feel the needle in my arm.
It's like not being able to wake up from a bad dream.
In the late afternoon, though I'm tired and a bit over it, I coax myself to go for a walk and am surprised to find myself completing 6km.
On the way, there's a sun shower and strangely, the smell of the rain on the hot pavement makes me feel better. Maybe it's because it makes me feel as if I'm still a part of it. This life.
Day 7: Would you believe I'm still feeling quite sickly and green? I've had a few tiny pains too but nothing I would complain about.
It's actually a lovely morning with a pleasant cool breeze wafting through my house. From my window I can see the bay. It looks a little murky and choppy out there.
This morning I have a meeting with Karen. I'm helping her with her Mayoral Campaign and things have got pretty nasty of late.
I don't know if it's the fact that I'm ill, but these days I'm very sensitive to nastiness and venom which, unfortunately, seems to be part of the territory when you're even tangentially involved in politics. It's an environment that doesn't offer the best perspective on human nature.
I'm not kidding you. Some of the people I've encountered so far are like cancer on legs: destructive; life sucking. I often wonder these days how they can find it so important: to live their lives day to day as angry, nasty, vindictive, derogatory, contemptuous, mean, racist and aggressive, bloated with their own self-importance to boot!
Maybe everyone should have an illness. Maybe everyone needs to ponder their mortality. Mostly, it's a good way to learn how to treat other people.
This afternoon we have an inspection so I can't really lie in bed. Later I will go for another walk I'm sure.
Experience so far tells me that I will probably be about 90% by Sunday.
In the meantime I'll rally on.
The only way to go is forward.
Showing posts with label chemotherapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chemotherapy. Show all posts
Thursday, February 2, 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.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Demon Days 4
Day 2: A beautiful, fine sunny day segues into an overcast one and I spend most of the time in bed, reading. I'm chuffed that, with some determination, I'm able to concentrate long enough to power through several chapters of the book I'm reading. It's one I've set for a book club I've organised for next month so it's given me some motivation.
I feel a little more tired than I did last time. I also noticed the yukky feeling in my mouth has settled in a bit sooner than usual.
Louisa rings in the morning suggesting a walk, but I know I am tired and demur.
Anne rings soon afterwards, offering to cook me a meal and I'm thinking maybe next Friday would be good. She says she is always there if I need anything.
Janet rings around lunch time and we have one of our longest conversations yet, covering a host of topics including World War 1 and the pitfalls of rigorous exercise.
I hear Lee arriving at the door to give me my injection and finish my conversation. These seem to be hurting less as I guess I'm getting used to them. There is also Lee's immaculate technique as she is really a highly experienced nurse.
We chat for an hour or so and in-between, I field a call from someone wanting me to write a grant application. Work is the last thing from my mind right now.
In the afternoon I go to the shop briefly to pick up some art materials. In the car, I realise it's a bad move as I feel exhausted.
When I get home, I think about hopping back into bed but decide to attempt a walk. It's a breezy afternoon. It feels good. I manage 3.5 km.
Day 3: I wake after a bad night of alternating hot sweats and feeling cold. I know menopause is setting in and it doesn't feel good.
I have a stomach ache and I feel queasy.
I spend nearly the whole day in bed, making further progress through my book, dabbling on Ebay, fiddling on Facebook, completing a cryptic crossword.
It's not a good sign when the ceiling fan malfunctions. I send Harry to the garage to fetch the back up air cooler. Hot flushes are no good when it's steaming outside.
Ethel is pottering around. She is such a gem. If she weren't keeping up with the household laundry for me, it would all be putrid by now.
Fiona rings and we have a nice long chat. My sister is starting her PhD this year. It's difficult to keep up with her as I swear, she can do 10,000 things at once. She's got a brain that never sleeps!
Later Al tries to fix the ceiling fan in fading light but tonight we have been invited to two 50th birthday parties - for Wasiela and Spitzie.
Even though I have said I will go to both, I think I can only manage the one closer to home. I feel a bit bad about continuing to miss out on fun and outings but what to do? As the summer holidays disappear before my eyes and Ben is only weeks away from returning to school, again I am aware of being the one outside the lolly shop with my nose pressed up against the glass.
I last 3 hours at Spitzie's party which is held just down the road. A few people comment on how good I look and I observe that makeup and dim lighting helps!
Day 4: I wake feeling quite nauseous to mild sunshine and a still morning. I notice that my fingernails are quite discoloured. Apparently, I'm to expect them to fall off eventually but I'm hoping I'll be lucky.
The day pans out unexpectedly. The sky clears and it's a pristine day, Al completes the installation of the fan in our bedroom. I swear, this man can fix anything.
It's a stinking hot morning and it's stifling inside though there's a breeze outside. Waiting for Al, I fiddle on my guitar on the back deck - I'd love to get back into the classical guitar I learned briefly a few years ago. I reckon I'm about Grade 4 but I'm really really rusty.
Fan fixed, we decide to mooch down to the Redland Bay markets with Harry and Ben but it's already 10.30 am and half the stalls have packed up - it's so damn hot. I buy two mingy handbags from a woman because I feel sorry for her - and regret my purchase, as you do.
Harry drops us down at Pelican's Nest, a lovely little restaurant overlooking the water. The breeze is brisk here and thankfully cool. Al and I have a light breakfast and walk home.
On the spur of the moment we invite the Neils over for an early dinner and cook a chicken, spinach and mango salad together in the kitchen.
Al remarks upon how well I'm holding up and I have to say, I am!
By the time we are sitting on the deck, eating and chatting with our guests and watching the full moon rise in a pink sky above an incoming tide, the only clue that I am unwell is the fact that everything tastes terrible. Mind you, the anti nauseas are helping.
It's a great day - everything considered.
Day 5: Unfortunately, I have a terrible night. The hot sweats are terrible and the nausea is chronic. I am dry retching over the toilet bowl at midnight. (Choice, broo).
Eventually, I cede to a sleeping pill.
I am woken by Al with a recording of a recent development: my chronic snoring. Actually, it's quite funny.
It's a putridly hot day and I'm tired and still squeamish so I lie like a half-dead squid on my bed nearly all day. I do a tiny bit of work on the painting I'm doing, I finish my book, I watch 'Jane Eyre' on Foxel. It's about as constructive as I can be the way I'm feeling.
The thing I'm noticing again is the disgusting smell of this process. I hate to tell you this but seriously, the extrusions from my good self are indescribably putrid. I can't stand the sight or smell of me right now. It's utterly gag-worthy. I feel like Chernobyl on legs.
At mid morning, the lady from 'Damp Doggy' comes to shave my dog, Spunky. Now the whole Hope Family has joined the 'Shave for Solidarity', as Al calls it.
Speaking of which, there is something else that is funny today. I had thought I'd lost my wig but it's turned up: accidentally washed with a pile of towels in the washing machine. Ethel says it's acrylic and should be fine but it looks like a sad rug. I spray some wig sheen stuff on it to see if it will bounce back.
In the late afternoon, I coerce myself out of bed for a 4 km stroll. I go bald headed wearing a pale tee shirt my sister gave me for Christmas. It says: "Cute Bald Chick Kicking Breast Cancer's Butt." I don't know about the 'cute' part. On the way, I pass a couple of tall, teenage boys, carting their crab pots home. I don't know if I feel self-conscious but I try to hold my head high.
Two younger girls pass on bicycles and smile, in sympathy I'm guessing.
By the time I return home, I know my body is sore to the touch, like it was last time.
I pray tomorrow there'll be a storm and this revolting heat will break.
Day 6: I have difficulty sleeping yet again and, perhaps ill advisedly, take another sleeping pill around midnight I'm guessing.
When I wake, it's hot outside but not so stifling indoors. I feel okay today but there's still a disgusting taste in my mouth. I spend the morning reading until on the spur of the moment, I suggest a movie.
My wig looks dank and pathetic on its wig stand. It would give Donald Trump's rug a run for it's money I reckon. It looks like I should spray Baygon on it. It looks like something pulled from a drain even though I've combed it several times, trying to tame the bits that don't quite seem to sit so well anymore. I'm hoping Maria will be able to rescue it.
Al has to drop off a car we're trying to sell in town, so I agree to drive in with Ben.
On the way, I am acutely aware of how exhausted I feel.
We have a very quick meal in South Bank and I rue the fact that I cannot taste my apparently delicious red beef curry.
We go to Southbank Cineplex and watch 'Sherlock Holmes' with a full theatre of 500 people. It's only afterwards that I think maybe it was not such a good move.
On the way home, I'm aware of feeling surly and removed. Later I worry that my sense of humour may be evaporating.
Increasingly these days I am aware of a lack of expression on my face. It is I guess what I would call resignation.
As a regular Facebook User (hey, at least it's not heroin!) I am aware of how many of my active, joyful friends are out exercising, experiencing life.
People are moving onwards and upwards while I seem to be wallowing.
We get home close to 6 pm. Al cooks me dinner and goes off to play tennis. I read a little more of a new book and when I've reached 60% (thank you Kindle), I turn the light off.
By this time Al is snoring.
Day 7: It's a humid morning and I can sense a scorcher coming on. I have a blood test today and must try to drink at least 2 litres of water before hand so that I am spared the ordeal of being pierced once too many times.
Tomorrow, I have another appointment with Dr Choo. She wants to check my white blood cell count. If it's too low, my next chemo may be delayed.
My taste buds are still a little way from normal but I'm grateful that at least, last night, I managed to drift off to sleep without the use of pharmaceuticals.
There are other things I'm grateful for, of course. I still have a smattering of eyelashes and eyebrows; I may be as big as a cow, but at least I'm not an elephant - yet; some people do still care enough about my welfare to continue to check on me.
This afternoon, I'll hopefully go for a walk with Linda.
There's a cool change anticipated later in the week and I remind myself, everything passes.
Nothing is forever.
I feel a little more tired than I did last time. I also noticed the yukky feeling in my mouth has settled in a bit sooner than usual.
Louisa rings in the morning suggesting a walk, but I know I am tired and demur.
Anne rings soon afterwards, offering to cook me a meal and I'm thinking maybe next Friday would be good. She says she is always there if I need anything.
Janet rings around lunch time and we have one of our longest conversations yet, covering a host of topics including World War 1 and the pitfalls of rigorous exercise.
I hear Lee arriving at the door to give me my injection and finish my conversation. These seem to be hurting less as I guess I'm getting used to them. There is also Lee's immaculate technique as she is really a highly experienced nurse.
We chat for an hour or so and in-between, I field a call from someone wanting me to write a grant application. Work is the last thing from my mind right now.
In the afternoon I go to the shop briefly to pick up some art materials. In the car, I realise it's a bad move as I feel exhausted.
When I get home, I think about hopping back into bed but decide to attempt a walk. It's a breezy afternoon. It feels good. I manage 3.5 km.
Day 3: I wake after a bad night of alternating hot sweats and feeling cold. I know menopause is setting in and it doesn't feel good.
I have a stomach ache and I feel queasy.
I spend nearly the whole day in bed, making further progress through my book, dabbling on Ebay, fiddling on Facebook, completing a cryptic crossword.
It's not a good sign when the ceiling fan malfunctions. I send Harry to the garage to fetch the back up air cooler. Hot flushes are no good when it's steaming outside.
Ethel is pottering around. She is such a gem. If she weren't keeping up with the household laundry for me, it would all be putrid by now.
Fiona rings and we have a nice long chat. My sister is starting her PhD this year. It's difficult to keep up with her as I swear, she can do 10,000 things at once. She's got a brain that never sleeps!
Later Al tries to fix the ceiling fan in fading light but tonight we have been invited to two 50th birthday parties - for Wasiela and Spitzie.
Even though I have said I will go to both, I think I can only manage the one closer to home. I feel a bit bad about continuing to miss out on fun and outings but what to do? As the summer holidays disappear before my eyes and Ben is only weeks away from returning to school, again I am aware of being the one outside the lolly shop with my nose pressed up against the glass.
I last 3 hours at Spitzie's party which is held just down the road. A few people comment on how good I look and I observe that makeup and dim lighting helps!
Day 4: I wake feeling quite nauseous to mild sunshine and a still morning. I notice that my fingernails are quite discoloured. Apparently, I'm to expect them to fall off eventually but I'm hoping I'll be lucky.
The day pans out unexpectedly. The sky clears and it's a pristine day, Al completes the installation of the fan in our bedroom. I swear, this man can fix anything.
It's a stinking hot morning and it's stifling inside though there's a breeze outside. Waiting for Al, I fiddle on my guitar on the back deck - I'd love to get back into the classical guitar I learned briefly a few years ago. I reckon I'm about Grade 4 but I'm really really rusty.
Fan fixed, we decide to mooch down to the Redland Bay markets with Harry and Ben but it's already 10.30 am and half the stalls have packed up - it's so damn hot. I buy two mingy handbags from a woman because I feel sorry for her - and regret my purchase, as you do.
Harry drops us down at Pelican's Nest, a lovely little restaurant overlooking the water. The breeze is brisk here and thankfully cool. Al and I have a light breakfast and walk home.
On the spur of the moment we invite the Neils over for an early dinner and cook a chicken, spinach and mango salad together in the kitchen.
Al remarks upon how well I'm holding up and I have to say, I am!
By the time we are sitting on the deck, eating and chatting with our guests and watching the full moon rise in a pink sky above an incoming tide, the only clue that I am unwell is the fact that everything tastes terrible. Mind you, the anti nauseas are helping.
It's a great day - everything considered.
Day 5: Unfortunately, I have a terrible night. The hot sweats are terrible and the nausea is chronic. I am dry retching over the toilet bowl at midnight. (Choice, broo).
Eventually, I cede to a sleeping pill.
I am woken by Al with a recording of a recent development: my chronic snoring. Actually, it's quite funny.
It's a putridly hot day and I'm tired and still squeamish so I lie like a half-dead squid on my bed nearly all day. I do a tiny bit of work on the painting I'm doing, I finish my book, I watch 'Jane Eyre' on Foxel. It's about as constructive as I can be the way I'm feeling.
The thing I'm noticing again is the disgusting smell of this process. I hate to tell you this but seriously, the extrusions from my good self are indescribably putrid. I can't stand the sight or smell of me right now. It's utterly gag-worthy. I feel like Chernobyl on legs.
At mid morning, the lady from 'Damp Doggy' comes to shave my dog, Spunky. Now the whole Hope Family has joined the 'Shave for Solidarity', as Al calls it.
Speaking of which, there is something else that is funny today. I had thought I'd lost my wig but it's turned up: accidentally washed with a pile of towels in the washing machine. Ethel says it's acrylic and should be fine but it looks like a sad rug. I spray some wig sheen stuff on it to see if it will bounce back.
In the late afternoon, I coerce myself out of bed for a 4 km stroll. I go bald headed wearing a pale tee shirt my sister gave me for Christmas. It says: "Cute Bald Chick Kicking Breast Cancer's Butt." I don't know about the 'cute' part. On the way, I pass a couple of tall, teenage boys, carting their crab pots home. I don't know if I feel self-conscious but I try to hold my head high.
Two younger girls pass on bicycles and smile, in sympathy I'm guessing.
By the time I return home, I know my body is sore to the touch, like it was last time.
I pray tomorrow there'll be a storm and this revolting heat will break.
Day 6: I have difficulty sleeping yet again and, perhaps ill advisedly, take another sleeping pill around midnight I'm guessing.
When I wake, it's hot outside but not so stifling indoors. I feel okay today but there's still a disgusting taste in my mouth. I spend the morning reading until on the spur of the moment, I suggest a movie.
My wig looks dank and pathetic on its wig stand. It would give Donald Trump's rug a run for it's money I reckon. It looks like I should spray Baygon on it. It looks like something pulled from a drain even though I've combed it several times, trying to tame the bits that don't quite seem to sit so well anymore. I'm hoping Maria will be able to rescue it.
Al has to drop off a car we're trying to sell in town, so I agree to drive in with Ben.
On the way, I am acutely aware of how exhausted I feel.
We have a very quick meal in South Bank and I rue the fact that I cannot taste my apparently delicious red beef curry.
We go to Southbank Cineplex and watch 'Sherlock Holmes' with a full theatre of 500 people. It's only afterwards that I think maybe it was not such a good move.
On the way home, I'm aware of feeling surly and removed. Later I worry that my sense of humour may be evaporating.
Increasingly these days I am aware of a lack of expression on my face. It is I guess what I would call resignation.
As a regular Facebook User (hey, at least it's not heroin!) I am aware of how many of my active, joyful friends are out exercising, experiencing life.
People are moving onwards and upwards while I seem to be wallowing.
We get home close to 6 pm. Al cooks me dinner and goes off to play tennis. I read a little more of a new book and when I've reached 60% (thank you Kindle), I turn the light off.
By this time Al is snoring.
Day 7: It's a humid morning and I can sense a scorcher coming on. I have a blood test today and must try to drink at least 2 litres of water before hand so that I am spared the ordeal of being pierced once too many times.
Tomorrow, I have another appointment with Dr Choo. She wants to check my white blood cell count. If it's too low, my next chemo may be delayed.
My taste buds are still a little way from normal but I'm grateful that at least, last night, I managed to drift off to sleep without the use of pharmaceuticals.
There are other things I'm grateful for, of course. I still have a smattering of eyelashes and eyebrows; I may be as big as a cow, but at least I'm not an elephant - yet; some people do still care enough about my welfare to continue to check on me.
This afternoon, I'll hopefully go for a walk with Linda.
There's a cool change anticipated later in the week and I remind myself, everything passes.
Nothing is forever.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Chemo 4
It's an overcast day and slightly drizzly when I leave for my fourth chemo session this morning.
I need to pick up Nim from Cleveland and get there in good time to reach the hospital for T-Time (Toxin Time).
I'm 66% of the way through this series of frankly unpleasant experiences, and I've been channelling the spirits of the Anzacs. Each new phase is a new attack on that dark Gallipoli beach, out of one trench, across the bullet drenched landscape, ducking and weaving the potential shells, the barbed wire lines, bayonets fixed at the ready until the safety of the next trench.
I'm now just two trenches away from safety, having so far withstood the enemy fire by Adriomyacin, Taxotere and Cyclophosphomide (the Axis of Evil).
Just think what the Anzacs did for Australia? That is what true courage is. This business of beating cancer is nothing in the scheme of things.
Today, only Harry is able to accompany me in with Nim, where we meet Lindar and Tracey and once again, I am embarrassed by the orgy of gift giving. Do my friends ever stop?
Nim has also brought food including a Belgian Chocolate Cake especially for the nurses. This woman knows how to win friends because later, we will discover the cake has gone down a treat :)
As I am called into my suite, I feel nauseous already and before I sit down, I can feel the burn of reflux in my gullet.
What's going on? You see, I'm told the brain when routinely exposed to experiences - good or bad - begins to engineer itself to predict your responses. It's really amazing. If only we could channel this capacity to other parts of our lives. Lacking motivation? Feeling anxious? Then retrain your brain!
Today my toxicologist is a pretty Korean nurse called Sun Yee. She is young and sweet. I learn that her mother and brother still live in Seoul. She has been here four years. Her father died at 61 of a heart attack. Kim Jong's Death has unsettled the people of Seoul. Any day now they could go from Shreddies for breakfast to Shrapnel.
I told you already: different shit, different mountain. We all have a hill to climb sooner or later.
Nim has made chicken rolls and delicious fruit salads in enormous proportions. There are also ginger bread cookies.
Later Janet arrives bearing coffees and with her, some memorabilia to help take my mind off things.
I decide to give out the belated Chrismas presents that I have bought. I give Lindar a bracelet and scarf, Tracey a recipe book, and for Janet, some earrings plus a book called "Naughty Origami". (There's a story there but basically, now Janet and her husband Bob can enjoy hours of fun making origami boobs, vaginas, 'French Ticklers' (illustrated with the use of a banana) and I believe, even what looks like a threesome. It's appropriate. Trust me.
To oversee my cannula insertion, I have a nurse I've had before, Mel, and I have to say it hurts rather badly when it is inserted.
At one point she observes my tiny veins and says: "It's not size that matters."
"I tell my husband that all the time," I say.
"Well we won't tell him and embarrass him," Mel laughs, getting my lame attempt at innuendo.
"Aah no, it's the other way round for me, Mel," I say, "You know he eats a lot of hay."
With such banter, some anxiety lifts. The good thing is that it takes just one go with the cannula and eventually the pain subsides as I practice some brain reengineering muttering "It doesn't hurt, It doesn't hurt." It seems to work.
The girls chat sweetly around me. Janet has brought some photos to show us of the many, many good times we've shared over the years.
One is a photo taken on my 41st birthday. There is Lindar, Tracey, me and Janet and dammit, we all looked so hot! Time, that incompetent fool has left us with someone else's saggy jowls.
Janet has also brought some unusual memorabilia to share. Some ancient artefacts, 2000 years old, gouged from an archaeological site in Rhodes, and courtesy of some drunken archeologists she and her husband Bob befriended by bibulous banter behind a bar. What an unusual experience, one I could really dig! (boom tish).
As it happens today's conversation does graze over a wide array of topics: beginning as you do in ladies' circles with the vexing issue of vaginal dryness - at some stage ladies, I will have to discuss this subject with you - one of the several and somewhat disconcerting effects of menopause, one of the side effects of my treatment which will be discussed in depth in a later blog.
The conversation is candid as we move onto discussing the sex education of our kids, comparing notes of our 'bad mother' moments (the ones you usually have when hidden under that handy cone of silence: the family car - when you can blithely threaten murder and bombard your children with crushing vitriol and sarcasm, possibly scarring them for life, just because you are ready to explode with frustration). We all feel a lot better sharing these stories: just knowing you are not alone in allowing "Psycho Mum" to show her ugly head.
But for all the joviality, when the Adromyacin is being inserted I feel a bit anxious and my friends work really hard on keeping my eyes away from the syringe full of red fluid. If only it weren't coloured red, I'm sure I'd cope a lot better.
However, by the Taxotere I am really felling quite unwell. Nim and Janet stroke my hands. Soo Yin offers me the anti nausea tablet that has a sedative effect and I decide to accept it. I feel hot and vile.
In an effort to perk me up, Nim hand feeds me some home made fruit salad because my hands are in the oven mitts.
"I would hate to be a seal," I observe as the lack of fingers is really quite a handicap.
Then she feeds me a chicken roll she has brought for each of us, with a bit of the chilli both she and I love. What can I say. This friend is just a gem. She was probably Florence Nightingale in a previous life. Of Nim I have discovered she is the Yin to my Yang, a woman who continues to teach me about opening up other parts to the person I am, and vice versa. Nim is open, passionate, competitive, driven, emotional, giving, generous, and operates on about 400,000 KW of energy. She assesses most people from the heart and will lavish love and affection on people without a second thought.
I on the other hand have a Virgoan's natural caution with people. I am an observer and in many cases,gravitate toward those I wish to be friends with based on a fairly cerebral assessment of their personal qualities and how they mesh with mine. As I found myself saying just yesterday: Life is to short for cheap wine, bad coffee and boring conversation. May I emphasise Good Conversation. It really seems to be a dying art and when you find it with someone you meet she or he is a keeper. Good conversationalists are rich in life experiences, many are highly educated and/or well read, they have an ear for listening, they usually have lots of interests, and they show an interest in others. In short, like cancer-free left breasts, they don't grow on trees so if you find them, hang onto them.
I imagine that, as time goes on, Nim and I will adopt the best of each of us in our efforts to some balance in our interactions with the world. From this, who knows what could grow in the future?
The point is, I choose my friends wisely, and I hope that this is one reason I have four such wonderful women by my chair-side today.
So, after being spoon fed, I don't feel as ill and, once the cyclophosphamide is doing its work, I feel kind of okay but a little woozy still.
Janet, Lindar and Tracey finish off Nim's fruit salads and are very thankful.
After we leave, Lindar drives Nim and me to the Manpad under construction in Merivale Street. I manage to get home without falling asleep, dropping Nim home safely.
Today I have managed a few laughs although I can tell that the intensity of my bon homie
is plateauing.
I anticipate that over the remaining two sessions, I will find it quite a struggle and I'm hoping my friends will have the energy to see this through with me to the end.
I did not see Dr Choo today as she is on holidays. I will see her later next week.
Dr Choo has said that after Dose 4 is when the true menopause symptoms should start to raise their cheeky little heads from the tundra of my own Antarctica. Global warming it seems has already commenced and I have started to spend most nights lathered in a veil of sweat.
I have also started to notice that I am as sensitive as a hand grenade when dealing with vexatious situations - like not being able to find something unimportant - and the poorly educated halfwits who want to argue politics.
What other unpleasant experiences lie ahead this week time will tell.
All I know is that I'll be ducking and running as fast as possible through the explosions across that battle field until another 3 weeks when my next trench is claimed.
In the meantime, Al is battening down the hatches. And my Mum is making me my favourite spicy fish balls as I speak.
Harry is working on a DJ mix as he's been secured for the launch of a new 'Scooter Magazine' down the Gold Coast next week. (He's quite chuffed about it, actually).
Tonight we are going to Ethel and George's House for dinner.
Everything seems pretty normal.
And I will continue to work as hard as I can to keep things that way.
I need to pick up Nim from Cleveland and get there in good time to reach the hospital for T-Time (Toxin Time).
I'm 66% of the way through this series of frankly unpleasant experiences, and I've been channelling the spirits of the Anzacs. Each new phase is a new attack on that dark Gallipoli beach, out of one trench, across the bullet drenched landscape, ducking and weaving the potential shells, the barbed wire lines, bayonets fixed at the ready until the safety of the next trench.
I'm now just two trenches away from safety, having so far withstood the enemy fire by Adriomyacin, Taxotere and Cyclophosphomide (the Axis of Evil).
Just think what the Anzacs did for Australia? That is what true courage is. This business of beating cancer is nothing in the scheme of things.
Today, only Harry is able to accompany me in with Nim, where we meet Lindar and Tracey and once again, I am embarrassed by the orgy of gift giving. Do my friends ever stop?
Nim has also brought food including a Belgian Chocolate Cake especially for the nurses. This woman knows how to win friends because later, we will discover the cake has gone down a treat :)
As I am called into my suite, I feel nauseous already and before I sit down, I can feel the burn of reflux in my gullet.
What's going on? You see, I'm told the brain when routinely exposed to experiences - good or bad - begins to engineer itself to predict your responses. It's really amazing. If only we could channel this capacity to other parts of our lives. Lacking motivation? Feeling anxious? Then retrain your brain!
Today my toxicologist is a pretty Korean nurse called Sun Yee. She is young and sweet. I learn that her mother and brother still live in Seoul. She has been here four years. Her father died at 61 of a heart attack. Kim Jong's Death has unsettled the people of Seoul. Any day now they could go from Shreddies for breakfast to Shrapnel.
I told you already: different shit, different mountain. We all have a hill to climb sooner or later.
Nim has made chicken rolls and delicious fruit salads in enormous proportions. There are also ginger bread cookies.
Later Janet arrives bearing coffees and with her, some memorabilia to help take my mind off things.
I decide to give out the belated Chrismas presents that I have bought. I give Lindar a bracelet and scarf, Tracey a recipe book, and for Janet, some earrings plus a book called "Naughty Origami". (There's a story there but basically, now Janet and her husband Bob can enjoy hours of fun making origami boobs, vaginas, 'French Ticklers' (illustrated with the use of a banana) and I believe, even what looks like a threesome. It's appropriate. Trust me.
To oversee my cannula insertion, I have a nurse I've had before, Mel, and I have to say it hurts rather badly when it is inserted.
At one point she observes my tiny veins and says: "It's not size that matters."
"I tell my husband that all the time," I say.
"Well we won't tell him and embarrass him," Mel laughs, getting my lame attempt at innuendo.
"Aah no, it's the other way round for me, Mel," I say, "You know he eats a lot of hay."
With such banter, some anxiety lifts. The good thing is that it takes just one go with the cannula and eventually the pain subsides as I practice some brain reengineering muttering "It doesn't hurt, It doesn't hurt." It seems to work.
The girls chat sweetly around me. Janet has brought some photos to show us of the many, many good times we've shared over the years.
One is a photo taken on my 41st birthday. There is Lindar, Tracey, me and Janet and dammit, we all looked so hot! Time, that incompetent fool has left us with someone else's saggy jowls.
Janet has also brought some unusual memorabilia to share. Some ancient artefacts, 2000 years old, gouged from an archaeological site in Rhodes, and courtesy of some drunken archeologists she and her husband Bob befriended by bibulous banter behind a bar. What an unusual experience, one I could really dig! (boom tish).
As it happens today's conversation does graze over a wide array of topics: beginning as you do in ladies' circles with the vexing issue of vaginal dryness - at some stage ladies, I will have to discuss this subject with you - one of the several and somewhat disconcerting effects of menopause, one of the side effects of my treatment which will be discussed in depth in a later blog.
The conversation is candid as we move onto discussing the sex education of our kids, comparing notes of our 'bad mother' moments (the ones you usually have when hidden under that handy cone of silence: the family car - when you can blithely threaten murder and bombard your children with crushing vitriol and sarcasm, possibly scarring them for life, just because you are ready to explode with frustration). We all feel a lot better sharing these stories: just knowing you are not alone in allowing "Psycho Mum" to show her ugly head.
But for all the joviality, when the Adromyacin is being inserted I feel a bit anxious and my friends work really hard on keeping my eyes away from the syringe full of red fluid. If only it weren't coloured red, I'm sure I'd cope a lot better.
However, by the Taxotere I am really felling quite unwell. Nim and Janet stroke my hands. Soo Yin offers me the anti nausea tablet that has a sedative effect and I decide to accept it. I feel hot and vile.
In an effort to perk me up, Nim hand feeds me some home made fruit salad because my hands are in the oven mitts.
"I would hate to be a seal," I observe as the lack of fingers is really quite a handicap.
Then she feeds me a chicken roll she has brought for each of us, with a bit of the chilli both she and I love. What can I say. This friend is just a gem. She was probably Florence Nightingale in a previous life. Of Nim I have discovered she is the Yin to my Yang, a woman who continues to teach me about opening up other parts to the person I am, and vice versa. Nim is open, passionate, competitive, driven, emotional, giving, generous, and operates on about 400,000 KW of energy. She assesses most people from the heart and will lavish love and affection on people without a second thought.
I on the other hand have a Virgoan's natural caution with people. I am an observer and in many cases,gravitate toward those I wish to be friends with based on a fairly cerebral assessment of their personal qualities and how they mesh with mine. As I found myself saying just yesterday: Life is to short for cheap wine, bad coffee and boring conversation. May I emphasise Good Conversation. It really seems to be a dying art and when you find it with someone you meet she or he is a keeper. Good conversationalists are rich in life experiences, many are highly educated and/or well read, they have an ear for listening, they usually have lots of interests, and they show an interest in others. In short, like cancer-free left breasts, they don't grow on trees so if you find them, hang onto them.
I imagine that, as time goes on, Nim and I will adopt the best of each of us in our efforts to some balance in our interactions with the world. From this, who knows what could grow in the future?
The point is, I choose my friends wisely, and I hope that this is one reason I have four such wonderful women by my chair-side today.
So, after being spoon fed, I don't feel as ill and, once the cyclophosphamide is doing its work, I feel kind of okay but a little woozy still.
Janet, Lindar and Tracey finish off Nim's fruit salads and are very thankful.
After we leave, Lindar drives Nim and me to the Manpad under construction in Merivale Street. I manage to get home without falling asleep, dropping Nim home safely.
Today I have managed a few laughs although I can tell that the intensity of my bon homie
is plateauing.
I anticipate that over the remaining two sessions, I will find it quite a struggle and I'm hoping my friends will have the energy to see this through with me to the end.
I did not see Dr Choo today as she is on holidays. I will see her later next week.
Dr Choo has said that after Dose 4 is when the true menopause symptoms should start to raise their cheeky little heads from the tundra of my own Antarctica. Global warming it seems has already commenced and I have started to spend most nights lathered in a veil of sweat.
I have also started to notice that I am as sensitive as a hand grenade when dealing with vexatious situations - like not being able to find something unimportant - and the poorly educated halfwits who want to argue politics.
What other unpleasant experiences lie ahead this week time will tell.
All I know is that I'll be ducking and running as fast as possible through the explosions across that battle field until another 3 weeks when my next trench is claimed.
In the meantime, Al is battening down the hatches. And my Mum is making me my favourite spicy fish balls as I speak.
Harry is working on a DJ mix as he's been secured for the launch of a new 'Scooter Magazine' down the Gold Coast next week. (He's quite chuffed about it, actually).
Tonight we are going to Ethel and George's House for dinner.
Everything seems pretty normal.
And I will continue to work as hard as I can to keep things that way.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Oncologist 1
Two weeks since my initial diagnosis and it's finally time for my first visit to my oncologist, Dr Choo. (And no, her first name is not "Ah"). My appointment is at 1 pm and Al and I drive in to Greenslopes Hospital, arriving right on time.
We wait for a whole hour before Dr Choo materialises. Al and I chat about this and that. We browse through magazines. We make small talk with the receptionists.
When Dr Choo finally arrives, I see a slight, attractive Asian lady who is casually dressed. Finally she calls me in.
She's open and engaging and goes to great lengths to write clear notes for me as she goes over the details of my case.
The one message I get is this and it bangs in my ears - I need chemotherapy. Even though my lymph nodes were negative, cancer cells can be transmitted through the blood stream. It's because of the size of my tumour that no chances are taken. The fact that it is estrogen positive means that the chemo is my very best option.
The chemotherapy regime that is recommended is called T.A.C., designed to minimise toxicity and which will throw my body into early menopause. Jolly good.
T.A.C stands for a combination of drugs - Taxotere, Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide. They sound like some of Harry Potter's spells, don't you think? I am to have have these drugs administered in six cycles every three weeks.
The side effects include nausea/vomiting, hair loss, an impact on cardiac function, a suppression of my immune system and, joy of joys, neuropathy, the effects of which will include numbness of my fingertips which may never return to their former sensate glory. At least, I'll be able to blame my woeful renditions of Chopin on something other than a complete lack of talent.
I'll tell you this: Dr Choo makes it sound like a breeze. Apparently the ill effects are a case of 'mind over matter'. I suppose it's easy for her to say.
Following chemotherapy, I am to have radiotherapy then hormonal therapy but these procedures are too far in the future for me to think about.
This containment is important I think. I am writing my movie scene by scene. I do not want to think about endings. This story must write itself without my imagination creating an unnecessary drama. Only God knows what mix of pathos my story must include, what logos, what ethos.
What surprises me is the speed of things. I have 1-2 weeks to commence my treatment but the sooner the better.
There seems to be a greater urgency to all of this than I had first assumed. I feel like I am being carried forward by a wave.
There is no time for looking back. I must say goodbye quickly to the life I have known so far, my pleasant routines.
I have a referral for an electrocardiogram on Monday and a blood test on Tuesday. I am booked in for my first chemo session next Thursday. I must have a blood test before every chemo session - what a nuisance!
I am directed downstairs to the Cancer Wing to receive my "education". Al and I are led to a neon-lit meeting room where we are introduced to the breast care nurse. She is sweet and friendly and we discover that she, too, is a breast-cancer survivor. A staff member offers me a cup of tea which is delivered on a tray with a nice piece of cake. It is very civilised.
Sitting opposite me is another girl, also diagnosed with breast cancer. I discover that she is 34 years old. As far as I can gather, she has had bowel cancer, a liver transplant and now, breast cancer with seven nodes removed. She must pay $1100 for a special drug to protect her ovaries during chemo as she has not yet had children.
And so it is easy for me to think how lucky I really am. I feel sad for this young girl and what she has already endured.
There is always a worse scenario.
Afterwards we are given a tour of the facility. We walk past other patients, reclining in comfortable leather chairs as they receive their treatment. They seem almost content as if they are in a holiday spa receiving some wonderfully invigorating treatment rather than a mix of potentially lethal drugs.
And it is then that I realise that this is the only way for any of us to get through any of this, the travails of life. What is the use of tears or chest beating or curses to the unfairness of the universe.
All we can do is buckle down and get on with it.
Winston Churchill was right. "If you are going through hell, keep going."
Nearly five hours later, Al and I drive back home. We stop of at Elysium to catch up with friends. We go to my Mum and Dad's for a delicious dinner. From the outside in, you would think that nothing has changed. There is no glitch in the universe and life is as it should be.
Everything is normal from the outside, but on the inside, I can feel a rumbling in the core, the shifting of techtonic plates, the tide.
Tomorrow we are off to Melbourne for the weekend. I shall kick my heels up. I shall quaff wine and indulge in bacchanalia fit for an immoral lush.
Really is there no better time than now to live life shamelessly?
We wait for a whole hour before Dr Choo materialises. Al and I chat about this and that. We browse through magazines. We make small talk with the receptionists.
When Dr Choo finally arrives, I see a slight, attractive Asian lady who is casually dressed. Finally she calls me in.
She's open and engaging and goes to great lengths to write clear notes for me as she goes over the details of my case.
The one message I get is this and it bangs in my ears - I need chemotherapy. Even though my lymph nodes were negative, cancer cells can be transmitted through the blood stream. It's because of the size of my tumour that no chances are taken. The fact that it is estrogen positive means that the chemo is my very best option.
The chemotherapy regime that is recommended is called T.A.C., designed to minimise toxicity and which will throw my body into early menopause. Jolly good.
T.A.C stands for a combination of drugs - Taxotere, Adriamycin and Cyclophosphamide. They sound like some of Harry Potter's spells, don't you think? I am to have have these drugs administered in six cycles every three weeks.
The side effects include nausea/vomiting, hair loss, an impact on cardiac function, a suppression of my immune system and, joy of joys, neuropathy, the effects of which will include numbness of my fingertips which may never return to their former sensate glory. At least, I'll be able to blame my woeful renditions of Chopin on something other than a complete lack of talent.
I'll tell you this: Dr Choo makes it sound like a breeze. Apparently the ill effects are a case of 'mind over matter'. I suppose it's easy for her to say.
Following chemotherapy, I am to have radiotherapy then hormonal therapy but these procedures are too far in the future for me to think about.
This containment is important I think. I am writing my movie scene by scene. I do not want to think about endings. This story must write itself without my imagination creating an unnecessary drama. Only God knows what mix of pathos my story must include, what logos, what ethos.
What surprises me is the speed of things. I have 1-2 weeks to commence my treatment but the sooner the better.
There seems to be a greater urgency to all of this than I had first assumed. I feel like I am being carried forward by a wave.
There is no time for looking back. I must say goodbye quickly to the life I have known so far, my pleasant routines.
I have a referral for an electrocardiogram on Monday and a blood test on Tuesday. I am booked in for my first chemo session next Thursday. I must have a blood test before every chemo session - what a nuisance!
I am directed downstairs to the Cancer Wing to receive my "education". Al and I are led to a neon-lit meeting room where we are introduced to the breast care nurse. She is sweet and friendly and we discover that she, too, is a breast-cancer survivor. A staff member offers me a cup of tea which is delivered on a tray with a nice piece of cake. It is very civilised.
Sitting opposite me is another girl, also diagnosed with breast cancer. I discover that she is 34 years old. As far as I can gather, she has had bowel cancer, a liver transplant and now, breast cancer with seven nodes removed. She must pay $1100 for a special drug to protect her ovaries during chemo as she has not yet had children.
And so it is easy for me to think how lucky I really am. I feel sad for this young girl and what she has already endured.
There is always a worse scenario.
Afterwards we are given a tour of the facility. We walk past other patients, reclining in comfortable leather chairs as they receive their treatment. They seem almost content as if they are in a holiday spa receiving some wonderfully invigorating treatment rather than a mix of potentially lethal drugs.
And it is then that I realise that this is the only way for any of us to get through any of this, the travails of life. What is the use of tears or chest beating or curses to the unfairness of the universe.
All we can do is buckle down and get on with it.
Winston Churchill was right. "If you are going through hell, keep going."
Nearly five hours later, Al and I drive back home. We stop of at Elysium to catch up with friends. We go to my Mum and Dad's for a delicious dinner. From the outside in, you would think that nothing has changed. There is no glitch in the universe and life is as it should be.
Everything is normal from the outside, but on the inside, I can feel a rumbling in the core, the shifting of techtonic plates, the tide.
Tomorrow we are off to Melbourne for the weekend. I shall kick my heels up. I shall quaff wine and indulge in bacchanalia fit for an immoral lush.
Really is there no better time than now to live life shamelessly?
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