LFG BQ

Guess who's back? 5am blog club! And this one is a special one... Today marks 100 days since I started chemotherapy. It feels simultaneously like the click of my fingers and 1000 days ago that I walked in to the Combined Day Unit having absolutely no idea what to expect; the instantaneous taste in my mouth, the red wee from one of the drugs (only for a few hours, don’t worry!), feeling like a zombie extra from the Walking Dead for 48 hours and the now infamous 4am steroid club of course. It has and continues to be a ride! My hair has stabilised but my eyebrows are gradually (quickly!) disappearing which is an odd experience. My facial hair is even more patchy than usual - blonde on my face, dark and much thicker on my neck. Bizarre. I feel tired and drawn out but the light at the end of the tunnel gets that bit bigger each day. 100 days means eight rounds are ticked off leaving only four to go. That in itself is quite the thing to get my head round. But the countdown is truly on - ...

It’s 5am, round 7 was yesterday. That can only mean one thing… it’s a steroid-powered blog baby! I’ve been thinking about what to write and I’m going to try and keep the update to how I’m doing to a minimum. I’m doing ok, it’s more of the same and I’m progressively more tired. But we’re 7 rounds in now, which means we have truly broken the back of this beast with only (ONLY! Ha) 5 rounds to go.  Round 6 was just before Christmas and I did a deal with the devil to get me to and through the big day relatively ok, which I then paid for with a good 5-6 days of pure misery evoked by hellacious stomach cramps. I spoke to the consultant earlier in the week who said the Vinblastine element of the AVD cocktail can play havoc with the nerve endings in your bowel. WONDERFUL. Thanks for the warning pal. In any case, I’ve been prescribed some heavy duty Buscopan to counter it when it lands this time round.  *It is worth noting I did have A LOT of turkey over the festive period, but I’m gon...

I think this is the biggest gap between blogs so far and being totally honest, I haven't really known what to write. I've had a very surreal few weeks.  I've spent most of it utterly convinced the doctors showed me the wrong scan results. It must have been someone else right? I'd only had four treatments before the scan, how could it possibly have vanquished the cancer that quickly?  From the minute you get diagnosed, everything (and I mean everything ) becomes about cancer. We spend our lives being told on those difficult adverts which we don't really watch because we either find it too hard or just refuse to accept the fact that one in two of us will get it. But unless you know someone who has been through it before, you know nothing about it. I certainly didn't. It is all consuming. Your treatment, what it does to your body (and hair!), what foods you can't eat, what things you can't do. Never mind the big question; can I beat it? Will I get better?...

It is crazy what the mind does when it is left up to its own devices. I was up late reading a book the other night and a character dies. Nothing to do with cancer, he got shot on a Ferris wheel and fell to the ground (Stephen King deaths lol), but one thing led to another and he was cremated. Now, throughout this nonsense, not once have I entertained death. There is literally no reason to - from the first meeting with Dr Lala, she stressed we weren't fighting against the clock. It wasn't something that could spread to elsewhere in the body (which blew my mind as you'd think the absolute opposite for cancer of the blood!). But that night my mind was overcome with what if this, and what if that.  What if I was one of the tiny percentile who were really unlucky?  What if it had spread somewhere and this wasn't a case of dealing with just Lymphoma but dealing with lung or brain cancer?  You have to remember, all my brain can think about is that Lymphoma is a cancer of the...

Sooo this week it’s 4:33am on Saturday morning and guess what? I’m awake!   After five or six days of sweet, normal sleep I appear to be back on the ‘on steroids? Well you can absolutely RELY on waking up between 3 and 4am’ train. Honestly, I could put the mortgage on it.   Joy.   Mind you, it turns out it is a semi-decent time to write my blog. Though I don’t plan to post this until Sunday evening. For why I hear you ask? Well, Monday is the next big milestone in this journey - my post-round four PET scan.   D-Day v2, part one if you will.   D-Day v1 was diagnosis day. Which was a ball, as I’m sure you can imagine. But on that day nearly two months ago, the first real stage gate was put in the calendar - the PET scan. You’ll remember the photo of my first PET scan. The oh shit, have you seen what’s going on in my chest and neck PET scan. That was the moment the penny dropped when this became something serious, something to worry about.   Well on that day, ...

It is 4:08am on Thursday 18th November. It’s early, sure, but we’ve got a 9:50am flight to New York to catch from Heathrow and an early start doesn’t really count when you’re flying off on holiday, right? Oh, and there is the obligatory, yet insanely overpriced full English and a beer waiting with my name on it!    It is 4:08am on Thursday 18th November. I’m not on my way to Heathrow like I should be, and I’m not asleep. My hair is falling out though, so later this evening I’m getting it shaved.  Life is cruel sometimes.    We’re a week and a day on from Round Three of the treatment and it is lingering. My stomach feels hungover, a constant uncomfortableness. My sleep resembles that of a newborn, incapable of completing more than a few hours in any one stretch. But it is the sight of my hair falling out in my hands that is the most sobering aspect of this round. We always knew it was likely at some point, it would be remarkable had my hair stayed for the durati...

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 ...