4 (free) tattoos

Tuesday, 8 November 2022
Another day, another department.

I am struggling to see joy and goodness in the world. Every day just seems to an endless cycle of appointments, pills, scans, blood tests, masks, needles, carparks. Even the sunshine, green trees, a glass of champagne aren’t doing it for me. Can’t taste food. In pain. Weak. All the other little niggles: mozzie bites (and other minor wounds) that won’t heal. My eyes water all the time (when I’m not crying that is). A march fly bit me on the back and that has gone manky. Can’t even be bothered going to the chemist let alone the doctor to get it checked – fancy if I carked it because of a march fly bite after all this?!

I’m trying to think of one thing – just one thing that is keeping my spirits up …. nope. Can’t think of one. Tired of washing my pillow slips each morning for the 5 days after chemo – not fun. Same with cleaning the toilet, washing towels. Don’t sleep much (I will write about my DEX dreams sometime, they were super kookie – cottage gardens, Putin, lots of snakes and sticks of explosives).

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Got to remember the good stuff Abbie …..(this is the self-therapy bit of my blogs): babies were born, divorces came through. Spent time with my dog. Enjoyed delicious meals and fun times with Simon, O & C. Got paid. People sent me wonderful cards and gifts when I got my diagnosis (I still have all of them sitting on my little bookcase ... except for maybe the jelly, the champagne and the chocolates …)

The senior radiation therapist takes me into the consulting room and starts going through The Gig. Today is the planning, assessment session in which they will position and mark-me-up (literally). I’ll also be required to practice holding my breath for 20-30 seconds. As the affected breast is on the left side, they try to minimise radiation to the heart by having you inflate your lungs. Yes, there can also be long-term risk of damage to your lungs but sounds like they’re not as important as the heart … and you’ve got two of them. Treatment will commence 28 November. What???? I was told it was 22 November – and before that, 17 November. 19 treatments – that now takes me to 22 December. I burst into tears. There’s now no possible way I will be able to travel to UK with Simon, O & C given the treatment-end date. I can now only hope I’ll be fit enough to drive to QLD so I can spend Christmas with my dog (and maybe a few humans if they’ll have me). Failing that, I will stay in Canberra, start drinking COB 22 December and sober up 2 January.

The dear woman doesn’t know what to do. I just tell her I’m feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, run down – and disappointed. It just never seems to end. I pull myself together, put my very sensible, grown-up hat on and let her continue.

Time to get into my blue robe. There is a sign saying you can bring your own from home if you wish and stash it in your little assigned pigeonhole/locker. Nope. Happy for ACT Health to do the laundry.

We pass the waiting room. It is kind of creepy. Everyone wears a blue gown and sit around until they’re called. There is no segregation. Today there is one woman and 4 elderly men in there – dressed only in socks and blue gowns. They stare at me as I walked through. It’s not often I feel uncomfortable in medical places and spaces but today, I would have preferred to just have a bit more … privacy.

We make our way down to The Room. I find out later they have named the scanners: Brindabella, Burley Griffin and another named after something Canberrian. Kind of cute but also kind of confusing (apparently someone did go to Brindabella Park when she saw it written on her treatment schedule ….) I meet Vish and Ethan – a very brave student. Robe off, up on the board. For some reason I thought it might be soft and comfy – but no, it’s not. My raise my arms above my head, instructed to hold on to two handles. My head, shoulders and arms are then encased in a hard, inflatable pillow. I am moved around gently, millimetre by millimetre, measurements taken, markers attached. My arm is starting to go sleep and I request permission to wriggle my fingers a little to get the blood circulating again. Oh man, this is going to be a rough run. I think about the guy who got his hand stuck between a boulder and a canyon wall and ended up amputating his arm with a pocket knife – this is not so bad, reckon I can get through this. Time to practice my breathing. A little ipad thingy is placed above my head inside the scanner. The screen displays a white line – being my breathing. At the top of the screen is a green strip. The aim is to hold my breath within the green strip until they stay stop. The clever machine only turns on once you’re in-the-zone and will stop when you let your breath go. Hopefully you will have held your breath long enough for the treatment to be administered. If not, you have to do it again. And again. I surprise myself by nailing it first time (thank you for the breathing tip Aunty Joan!) Truth is, I am so uncomfortable and desperate to get this over with, I could/would hold my breath until I turned blue. I’m now left on my own while they take their young, precious bodies out of the room and administer a mild dose of Chernobyl’s finest.

Young Ethan is intrigued by my pacman tattoo. It’s done a few rounds since the eighties – made a sad, corny comeback in the early 2000’s but otherwise, its now just considered 100% daggy. Which is totally the image I’m going for by the way. There is a backstory but I’ll write about that another time. For now, it’s time to get my tattoos. Yes – plural. Kind of a like a join the dots – one on the left ribcage area, one on the right. Another in the middle of my chest and the fourth just to the side of my left armpit ie. near the lymph nodes and breast where that bad baby was lurking – along with its entourage of mutant, freeloading cancer cells. Little fuckers. 

On recommendation by two people, I watched the first season of Emily in Paris. Yes, the whole season. Yes, I gave it a chance. No I won’t be watching the second season. I was desperately hoping she, Emily, would somehow fall victim to smallpox or elephantiasis – something permanently scarring, learn French, become not-American, wear longer skirts – basically not be such a pretentious, gushingly perfect little upstart. The other characters were good and I liked the fashion, champagne and cigarettes. In fact I think I might start having a champagne and a cigarette for lunch. Sorry guys, just not my bag! Remember, I used to watch The Bill regularly so I am really not qualified to provide a good critique of modern movies, shows etc. My favourite movies include Gattaca, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Castle, Wall-E – along with Dumb and Dumber and Anchorman – so I am definitely not to be trusted when it comes to assessing good/bad entertainment.

I feel better now I have written by blog. My woes, whines and whinges. I managed a few days work last week and Simon came down for the weekend so there were some happy moments.

Love yous all. xxx