I quite like the boxing. Like, I enjoy seeing Anthony Joshua getting flattened by a fat Mexican, and I enjoy the Fury redemption story. I keep a casual eye on it but nothing too committed. One thing I do know is that rounds are scored 10-9 unless someone hits the deck a time or two when it might be 10-8, or even 10-7.
I lost round one of my treatment 10-8. I hit the deck early and hard, before staggering to my feet again and getting to the bell. As you can imagine, this meant I was full of anxiety ahead of the second round. When a boxer hits the deck twice in the first round, he isn't usually seeing the third or fourth. His corner will pull him out if the referee doesn't; the fighters health and wellbeing completely paramount.
So a couple of Wednesday's ago, I tied up my boots (Gazelle's), put some vaseline on my cheekbones (took my anti-sickness pill) and strode through the doors at the hospital.
Round two. Ding, ding, ding.
This time, to add even more anxiety to the process, I had to go alone due to the strict covid rules. But I was able to take Odell the Octopus (he's had his jabs) to be my cornerman.
As I stepped foot in the ring (Bay Two, Combined Day unit), I was reminded of the enormity of all this. There are eight chair-bed things, four on each half of the room, with people strapped up to all kinds of machines. Beeping, ticking. Some people look like you'd expect a chemotherapy patient to look like - bald, sad, drawn out. Others look completely normal. Most are old, some are in the 40's and 50's. There aren't many in their 30's.
I chose my chair-bed and the activity begins. My PICC line is cleaned (to say I am looking in the opposite direction this time is a hilarious understatement) and I get a nice new plaster and blue-lined tubigrip. My four drugs are delivered in some high security, do-not-break-the-seal bag and everything is administered after a double sign off of my name, NHS number (I can only remember the first four numbers so far) and whatever ridiculously named drug is about to be pumped through.
The process itself is fine, I gradually feel a little more woozy as the time goes by, the taste of metal swishing through my mouth but no drama. Within an hour and a half or so, it is done. Before I know it I'm on my way home to the sofa.
So far so good, right?
What could be considered a less good move was forgetting to start taking my normal anti-sickness drugs when evening rolled around. I'm not sure why, other than perhaps thinking the monster pill I took before the treatment would cover me for the full day. It could not. Oh boy it could not.
I can't even describe how I felt. It felt like everything was wrong. I could feel it on my skin, in my body, in my head - everything was reverberating like actual hell. I had a horrible sleep for a few hours before dragging myself downstairs, telling Evie how nauseous I had felt.
Have you taken your sickness pill?
Erm, no. No, I have not.
Well, that'll explain it.
10 minutes later and I'm feeling ok again.
So, two observations. Firstly, the anti-sickness pills are the shit. Secondly, I should always take them!
***
So let's be fair, round two hit me with a big right hook, but I walked in to it, my guard down. Thankfully I took the anti-sickness pill before I hit the ground. Since that moment, this round has been so much better.
I was not hit as hard as round one, and felt a good two-three days ahead of schedule throughout. I felt bizarrely well the day after, before dropping a bit on the Friday, and yo-yo-ing a little through Saturday, but apart from some slow starts in the mornings following, where the stomachy feeling of being hungover has lingered, I have felt a lot better.
Whether this is because my body was better prepared for the onslaught this time round, or simply because the worst has happened already and it is just a case of cracking on... I'm not sure. Maybe it is my fitness coming in to play. Who knows.
So I'm cautiously optimistic it will continue in this way, but it is important to take it step by step. Round three might hit me like a Wilder right hand out of nowhere and set me back. When I've queried it with the consultant they are very non-commital, the process being so individual, but they do expect my level of tiredness to increase.
We are now half way to the first real stage gate of the treatment plan. After four rounds I will be having another PET scan to see what/if any changes have taken place to the disease. That is booked in for Monday 29th November. Cast your mind back a couple of posts and I highlighted that the consultant said 75% of patients are cured by this point and the treatment can be dialled down. I'm trying not to think too much about this either way at this point, we will see.
But it is important to take the positives when they present themselves and these are just some of the positives from round two:
- I've managed to read not one but TWO books - 'The Man Who Died Twice' by Richard Osman (the second Thursday Murder Club effort) and JUDAS 62 which is a spy thriller by Charles Cummings. Both brilliant and I flew through both of them - a combined 950-odd pages! It took me ten days to read my name last time
- I managed to complete a full week working from home the week after my treatment - actually being able to be useful too, and not the zombie I was for most of the first round
- My energy levels are good - I managed to walk five miles this morning and usually manage a couple of 20 minute walks each day to keep my steps up
- My taste! My taste didn't go off as terribly as the first round and whilst I'm not back on all chocolate, I am very much on some expensive variants..!
- The skin on my legs is improving by the day. Whilst round one dried out the spots, they're gradually now healing and disappearing completely
- And perhaps the best of all - last night I managed to sleep through without an anti-anxiety tablet or sleeping pill for the first time in MONTHS
- Oh, and I had my first actual beer since pre-treatment which was a treat
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