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.

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.