Birthday treats

By Wednesday, one week after chemo, it's Gary's birthday. Lily and I do cards and gifts in the morning before she goes to school. I have asked my Dad to go to a proper local butcher for a couple of thick rib-eye steaks. A budget busting £20 for the two - but I know they'll be good. I'm feeling awful - but hey - I'm on chemo - this is how it feels. I push myself to make Gary a chocolate cake and feel a sense of achievement as I get it out of the oven just as the District Nurse arrives.

The nurse has come to flush out my PICC line, put some Warfarin in to prevent blocking, change my dressing and take my obs. She's not happy with the results. My temperature is raised. My pulse is racing. She rings the chemo unit. I am to come down to hospital within the next 30 minutes. Suspected sepsis. And bring an overnight bag. Gary is summoned from our home office. Learning from last time I had chemo, I had an emergency bag packed. It's just easier. It means you won't be embarrassed when your husband packs for you some inappropriate thongs and a silk number you once wore 20 years ago lurking in your pyjama drawer.

Again Gary can't come in. He looks worried and upset. I'm sorry I've ruined his birthday. I go to the desk at A&E and they are expecting me. I'm segregated from the riff-raff, I have no immune system so I can't mix with others. After a wait of only 10 minutes I'm ushered into a side room. I show a special card I now carry, which has the exact antibiotics I need. Within 15 minutes I'm hooked up via my line to these antibiotics. It's incredible. The speed at which I'm treated. I feel so very grateful. I am to be admitted - no surprise there - just need to wait for a bed. Lily texts me with photos of steak, chips, onion rings, tomato and peas. I realise I haven't eaten. I'm so jealous. And Lily's had the sense to ice the chocolate cake. It looks delicious - I'm gutted. Happy Birthday Gary. I'll make it up to you.

Reality sets in

I have my chemo on the Wednesday. Thursday and Friday are a blur of drunken giddiness. A buzzing that won't stop. I forgot to mention on the Tuesday I had started on a 3 day course of strong steroids. They give you a 'Wheeeee!' feeling. A sense of euphoria that's out of place with the treatment you're on. Gary and Lily are very conscious that I am not trusted to do anything. On Friday night I have to administer an injection of Filgrastim - bone marrow boosting injection. I am to do this for 7 days. Saturday morning comes with a crash. I ache all over and the pain in my bones is excruciating. I send out for codeine to try and lessen the pain. By Saturday evening I'm really struggling. I take Gary's hand and tell him 'I can't do this'. He looks imploringly into my eyes. 'Please - you've got to.' I'm as close to tears than I ever have been. This is a side effect I didn't experience last time. To make it worse I have to give myself another injection - and 5 more after that. The next few days are awful. I can't lie. The pain in my bones is almost beyond what a human should endure. It's relentless. I feel like shit. But I'm on chemo. I'm supposed to.

Chemo Hero

 When I left the unit yesterday, I was given a large jute bag containing an equally large box. Lily was more excited than me. We opened the box. In it was every thing you could want while on chemo. A bandana hat, soft socks, dark chocolate, ginger biscuits, mouth pastilles, soft toothbrush, mouthwash, a digital thermometer, hand cream, hand sanitiser, colouring book, crayons - the list goes on. All donated to the Chemo Hero charity for people embarking on chemo. Thank you so much - a real brightener to the day. 

Chemo currency

 Its been a hectic 3 weeks. 

For starters Gary and I went to the new Seamoor cancer unit for our pep talk before chemo was to begin. We went through each of the drugs I was to receive, looking at the possible side effects. We were warned what to look out for and given advice if things seemed wrong or out of kilter. Gary was warned of personality changes in me - that's something to look forward to. It was a lot of life and death information and the subject was a big topic to take in. Asked if I had any questions on this life and death topic - I did have one - 'Does the sandwich lady still come round at lunchtime?'.

The following day I go to have my PICC line fitted. This is a catheter with fixings on the end that goes in your arm and resides near your heart. A permanent line while you're having treatment it means that your chemo or any other drugs can be administered or bloods taken, without the need for finding a vein each time. Last time there was a homely nurse with a line and a tape measure, in a side room. This time I was ushered into a mini operating theatre, hooked up to a heart monitor and using ultra sound the line was inserted through a cut in my arm. When your heart goes into arrhythmia they know the line has reached your heart. They draw back a little and are satisfied it's in the right place. The entry site is sealed by a giant clear dressing and the plumbing works are tucked into a tubigrip for future use.

I'm sick on the morning of chemo. Nerves I think. I know I've done this before - several times - but I'm nervous of the new drug regime I'm about to embark on. Due to Covid. Gary can only drop me at the unit. No last minute reassuring hand squeezing. I'm facing this alone. The chemo receiving unit has 14 bays in a horseshoe shape with a couple of bays in the middle. I'm in trap 1. Opposite is a lady dressed in full sports gear. Mmmm. She's dressed like she means business. I know she's on her first round. Laptop open, phone on the go, earphones in. I count 4 flasks with her. I'm soon hooked up to anti-sickness drugs through my PICC line. Then comes chemo drug no.1. I can feel it going round my body - I feel slightly woozy. I perk up at the sight of the sandwich lady - I'll take a cheese and pickle please. Sporty lady refuses and proceeds to eat something green from one of her flasks. She tells the nearby nurse that shes from London but had spent sometime in Australia. This, in between complaining at how long her chemo was taking. It takes as long as it takes love, I want to shout. But I keep quiet. I'm flushed through with saline and hooked up to drug no.2. This one gives you a stuffy nose as well as the feeling of too many G&T's. The tea lady arrives. Sporty lady orders hot water. Oh how noble. I'm contemplating whether to have a creme egg with my cup of tea. Sporty lady then gets on the phone to the husband of her best friend. I know this because I can hear every word. She's organising a surprise birthday party for her friend. Pipe down! Oh God - don't give me Tourettes - I might start blurting out. She'll do this and that tomorrow, she tells mystery husband. I laugh inwardly - ha! you wont be doing anything tomorrow love - because you are going to feel like shit, simultaneously being driven over by a very large farm tractor. Trust me. I know. Four hours have gone by and I'm done. I call Gary, who along with Lily come a and pick me up. Why am I doing this? It's chemo currency - buying myself more time on the earth.