Week Five - Reality

This week has been really hard.

So much so that I don't really know where I'm going with the blog this week. Normally, I have at least a few wise cracks to lean on or a funny photo or two, but today I'm falling a bit short of what to say.

Evie asked me yesterday whether I was going to do a blog this week, probably not I said... it would be too miserable. She reminded me that the whole point of writing about this journey was to chart the ups and the downs, and that I was doing it first and foremost to help me through it. 

In my brief flirtations with wanting to become a writer (I have 3000 words written in a Word doc somewhere), I remember one of the vaunted top tips for writers is to just keep writing and eventually you'll dig yourself out of the hole you find yourself in. So maybe that is what I need to do now, utilise this as a funnel to empty my head and it'll help process what has got to have been one of the hardest weeks of my life.

I've had hard weeks before. Long time readers will no doubt remember when I took a cricket ball to the mouth, resulting in the carnage you can very easily imagine. I couldn't eat anything more than jelly and Angel Delight for the next few weeks, losing a stone in the process (please note, this is not an advised weight loss strategy). But looking back, whilst that was rough, it had a reasonable end date. The human body is incredible at healing. Even knocking teeth out and biting through a lip will heal in a couple or three weeks. 

What I am struggling with at the moment is the sheer duration ahead of me. One week has felt like four, and my body isn't actually healing like it was post-trying to catch a cricket ball in my mouth, my body is under monumental attack by some of the most potent chemicals a human body can tolerate.

I had some overly optimistic impression that my treatment time would be filled with reading books, watching films and box sets, and generally having a chilled time. From about an hour after I got home from my first treatment session on Wednesday last week, I knew I had got it completely wrong. 

I couldn't concentrate on the easiest of TV.  I could barely read two pages of a book.  Stringing two related thoughts together was pretty stretching.

This lasted, at its worse, for three days. By Sunday morning I was able to half watch Mary Berry pull together some filled jacket potatoes on Saturday Morning Kitchen Best Bites which seemed like a monumental win at the time. 

The only way I can describe how chemotherapy has felt so far is relating it to a hangover, just without the alcohol dread and far more encompassing than any you've had before. For most of the last week I have felt drained, lethargic and beaten up. It doesn't help that my left arm looks like it has been run over (we're still very purple) either.

On Saturday night I felt as low as I have so far. It just all felt (and feels) too huge to comprehend. I am one week down. I have 23 to go. That is such a long time. 

It is too hard to process, and probably will be until I am past half way. Until the downhill section of treatment.

This first cycle has shed some light on how it is going to go mind you. It looks like for three-ish days I will be written off, before gradually becoming a bit more human. I've actually been able to work from home this week which has helped to keep my mind ticking over. But will the next cycle be worse than this? Will it accumulate? Or will it be slightly easier because my body knows what's coming? It is this dance in the darkness that fills me with dread. I'm only one treatment in but I am already apprehensive of going through that again.

***

One thing I have learnt is that whilst the anti-sickness pills are fantastic (I haven't been sick once yet), they don't half block up the old system! I was still taking them on Sunday morning, almost certainly over-cautiously, but that essentially poured concrete in to my bowels. You get the rough with the smooth on this blog, it isn't all glamour. Three nights of Sennakot and I am back baby! 

My taste was definitely affected initially - I couldn't touch anything orange squash/juice related, whilst lemonade was grim. Most upsettingly I have completely gone off chocolate. Someone better notify Cadburys. Interestingly, my sweet tooth has been replaced by a craving for all things savoury. I bloody love cheese now. I had a day earlier this week where it was all I could think about. 

Oh, and one final interesting thing - my skin is noticeably better. For quite some time now, my legs have had angry flare ups that could be considered a rash or just some spots. They would regularly be very sore and I'd often make them bleed through scratching. But now I have stopped scratching, the individual spots have dried out and my legs are starting to look a bit more normal. And that is after one cycle of treatment. Give me a few weeks and there will be Instagram accounts fawning over my legs.

***

On Wednesday the community nurse came to check my blood pressure, oxygen level and clean my PICC line for the first time. All the checks were fine and the procedure to clean the line with saline was perfectly ok too. What apparently wasn't ok for my brain was being asked to hold the entry of the line in place whilst she cleaned around it. Whether it was touching it or looking at the lines very clearly entering my body, I suddenly began to feel increasingly warm. Despite deep breaths, I am well on the way to melting down. I asked the nurse if she could open the door, and then as calmly as I could (not at all calmly) asked if she could call Evie down. I am sweating more than the day I ran the Berlin marathon in 24'c heat. I am HOT. Beads of sweat on forehead hot. Thankfully Evie was able to put a cold flannel (they do have some uses after all!) on my neck and I gradually cooled down. 

This poor community nurse treats 80 and 90 year old's every day, then rocks up to see me at the end of her shift and I nearly pass out because I looked at my arm. 

Embarrassment.

Needless to say, I won't be looking at my arm ever again.

***

I've wrote this over two or three days this week and perhaps you'll notice a change in tone as you make your way through the waffle. I've been fortunate enough to have spoken to a number of people who have been through similar treatment or know someone who has, and one of the top line messages has been there will be good days and there will be bad days. At the start of this week there were more bad than good. I still felt groggy, hungover and ill, not really sure when it was going to end. By the end of the week, the marginal improvements each day has brought me back to a relatively normal place. And that is encouraging. 

Next week will be a whole new challenge but with a completed week in my back pocket, I'm in a better place than I was ten days ago.

Thank you to everyone who has reached out to check in on me, delivered incredible meals on wheels and helped to keep my positivity up. 

We go again.