Did you miss me?!
The last three weeks have flown by like a week’s holiday in Majorca (during the good days) and equally dragged like a kid waiting for Christmas (during the bad days).
If Taxol is the high school bully who laughs at your green sandals and grey socks ensemble on the first day of school (ok so mother hadn’t got round to buying me winter footwear and one can hardly blame such ridiculing for such a fashion faux-pas), then this new AC chemo (aka: Red Devil) is the gun-happy terrorist who opens fire indiscriminately mowing down anyone in their path.
It’s brutal. And takes you totally by surprise. One minute you think you are going about your daily life and the next you are cowered in a corner with a stomach wound. It leaves carnage in its wake in all aspects and there’s little you can do to hide from it except wait for the devastation to pass.
And it does. Eventually. The recovery process is slower as the effect is more destructive. This poison seems to attack your core and your soul leaving you depleted and internally damaged. It’s like there’s gang warfare going on in your stomach leaving it mangled and mutilated.
There was some semblance of life (but not as we know it) returning after the initial effects of chemo and by day five I was back at the gym, albeit a little slower and weaker, and by day seven I even blitzed the kitchen and met a friend for lunch. It was like being given a shot of adrenaline. And I thought I had it in the bag.
Then just as I was getting comfortable with the return of my energy levels the shooter returned and took a second surprise hit flooring me for another four days followed by a few more days getting well acquainted with my new best friend, ‘the porcelain throne’.
I felt utterly cheated and if I had the energy to rant and rave I’d have kicked up a stink. But sadly I didn’t so the most I could do was wait for the misery to pass again. And sulk. Because I was looking forward to my two-week ‘chemo-vacation’
One schoolgirl error was not taking the tablets the doctor had prescribed. The three boxes of pills were for the first five days only and consisted of anti-nausea and steroids. I avoided them trying not to overload my body with more toxins and prescription drugs, but in hindsight I think they would have taken the edge off.
In fact the lovely lady doctor (Dr. Kildare is on holiday) said much the same yesterday (with a slap on the wrist for being a naughty cancer patient) when I went for my consultation. The pills are to counteract the chemo and need to be taken. Plus she’s now given me another set to take should diarrhea return as this can be damaging to the colon.
I’ll be rattling at this rate.
Meanwhile saw the sad news that Shannen Doherty died of stage 4 cancer. She was the same age as me. She was first diagnosed in 2015 and had a double mastectomy and treatment, but the cancer returned two years later and spread to her bones. She managed to survive another nine years.
There are four stages to breast cancer which basically sum up the size of the cancer and whether it has spread.
- Stage 1 means the cancer is small and only in the breast tissue, or possibly in the lymph nodes close to the breast.
- Stage 2 is also early-stage breast cancer which means the cancer is in the breast or nearby lymph nodes, or both.
- Stage 3 means the cancer has already spread from the breast to the lymph nodes (this is me) or sometimes the skin of the breast or chest wall.
- Stage 4 means the cancer has spread to other parts of the body such as bones or lungs. The problem is stage 4 is mostly treatment, but not curable. So there’s a ticking time bomb you carry around until you can fight no more and the cancer wins.
News like this hits home harder than it ever used to. Because you are now intrinsically linked to all these people by the invisible cancer thread. And it’s terrifying and humbling.
I read a blog where someone likened cancer to a really bad lodger who leaves mass destruction in your house, breaking your stuff and having wild parties. Then when you finally get rid of them you realise they’ve still got a key.
So we plod along. Back to the hospital earlier today for another dose of the Big Bloody Four. Two down and two more to go. I can almost touch life after chemo at this point.
two steps freelance 