No more snooze button

It’s been nearly a month since my last post – which probably means I don’t have as much to complain about! This is good news.

A week after the final chemo, the side-effects started to subside and my energy returned. I felt joyful, positive, started to pencil in long overdue catch ups with friends, mini-breaks, a half-marathon … then I crashed. Again. I think psychologically I felt I had done the hardest part and could now start living again … but my body had other plans. The fatigue returned, everything I ate tasted like it had passed through an aluminium smelter and the flashes of pain through my bones continued. Damn it.

The Hair

My hair has not grown a single bit – in fact, I think it’s got shorter. The few threads I do have are spikey, wiry and 50-shades of white. Yup. I’m doing a full on GI Jane without the 6-pack or the dubious gender-equality message (I still think Demi was – and still is – hot though). I had a slightly smug morning last Monday when there was a 40+ km/hr wind blowing through Canberra. As my female colleagues filed in – despairing at the ‘bad hair day’, Abbie’s noggin was snuggly tucked away in a head scarf. No worries. A second ‘bonus’ to having no hair is ease of vacuuming. Usually I spend my weekends untangling balls of tumbleweed from the head of the vacuum cleaner but it seems cancer has liberated me from this burden. I guess I won’t have to unclog the drain in the bathroom for a while yet either …

The Merina
I’m excited. The day has finally come to get the evil IUD removed. Can’t believe it has come to this! A routine contraceptive procedure has all turned to poo – and all during a harrowing ‘journey’ – could have well done without this complication. I arrive at the hospital at 6am. Yes, 6am. I am one of 10-15 others in for day surgery. Apparently there is another intake at 10am. We all sit quietly in the waiting area. I strike up a conversation with my neighbour, Sue. She is from Goulburn, in her 70’s, weighs – I’m guessing, less than 42kg. Has survived lung cancer, removal of a kidney, sudden death of her husband last year (when I offer my condolences, she told me it was a good thing he had died – he was abusive, an alcoholic, made her life miserable). She’s in for an abdominal surgical procedure which will require her to stay in hospital for at least 10 days. She has no children or family here, just her bag with personal effects, a few books and a Woman’s Day mag (for the puzzles). She’s one tough cookie. Sue is called through, we exchange numbers, I wish her well and tell her I’ll check-in in a few days’ time to see if she needs any more puzzles.

Swags of admin then surgical gown, cap, undies, mask and ‘slippers’. I pop my stuff in my little locker and make my way to waiting room area no. 2. And there’s Sue! I’m glad she picked me out of the line-up as everyone kind of looks the same … the hairy legs and man-spreading are a dead giveaway but aside from that, it’s just two eyes peeping out over the top of a mask. I’m curious as to why a few people have red caps on (not white). When I have my intake session with the nurse, she explains it identifies people who have an allergy or condition the surgical team need to be aware of. I relay my newfound knowledge to Sue who is impressed with my investigative skills.

Then off she goes. I promise myself I will drop her a line in a few days’ time.

Finally it’s my turn. Up onto the bed, assisted by the theatre nurse, Abby. Name, DOB, address, procedure. A wardie comes to wheel me down to pre-op. Wow, this place is busy! I’m not sure how many theatres there are but it is full on. I get parked in a pre-op room then everyone … disappears. 5, 10, 20 minutes. Waiting waiting. I sit up, look around. I can see the charts of the people and procedures before/after me. I’m certain this is not appropriate but hey, if someone left it there in plain sight, I’m going to read it. All are gynaecological procedures which means I’m in the right place. One of the surgeons comes in a for a meet-and-greet. She is young, cool, I like her. The (lack lustre) Gyne from a few weeks back comes in to discuss the procedure. More waiting. I peak into the theatre – they are ‘waking up’ the patient before me. Lots of loud, insistent voices. Hopefully we haven’t got another Janice on our hands. Next one of the anaesthetists (a South African) comes in to insert a canula in preparation for the op. Nailed it. First time. Anaesthetists are an odd bunch. Dark sense of humour and often appear somewhat … dishevelled, slightly wayward … in need of a razor.

A few minutes later I’m wheeled through, transferred, assume the position then No. 2 anaesthetist (a kiwi) starts the good meds. I look around the theatre, ask the chaps if I’m ‘fading’ and then … gone.

I wake up in recovery. Feeling ok. Much better than the last surgery. Being under anaesthetic is always weird. It’s not even a deep sleep, it’s a total disconnect from consciousness. No dreaming, it’s like you’ve had the last few hours ripped away from you. I’m told the procedure went well, straight forward, the merina was where it should be and has been removed. They give me a snap-shot to take home for show and tell. It looks like a new planet ….

I’m then trundled to another recovery area. The nurse asks whether I would like a cup of tea. Yes I would! It is early afternoon and I haven’t eaten since yesterday evening. She brings me a cup of tea in a paper cup with a dash of milk. It is THE BEST cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I start to feel stronger and get my energy back. By 2pm my BP, oxygen etc. are all good and they start the paperwork for me to leave – yay! I make my way to the toilet (which is a big deal apparently … they want to know everything’s ‘working’). As I stand up, put my shoes on and walk, whatever’s going on downstairs makes a massive exit – blood all over the floor, my shoes. I’m so embarrassed. They give me a pad/surfboard to manage the fall out. ½ an hour later Simon arrives to pick me up – so pleased to see him.

Lucy
Lucy continues to live-the-dream in Queensland. Tara and I speak regularly and she fills me in on Lucy’s less-than-proud moments. Lucy has ingratiated herself into Tara’s wider family. She is providing ‘guidance’ to Jerry (Tara’s daughter’s kelpie pup), likes to ‘help’ with the dishwasher and has taken to sleeping next to Tara’s bed – with The Pack. As planned, Lucy is due to return to the ACT in late Jan, early Feb 2023. I have no idea how I’m going to do it. I’m checking listings online and getting references together. There is no doubt there is prejudice – if you have a glorious little cavoodle or pretty much any type of gorgeously cute ‘oodle, you’re a shoo in. If you’ve got a rangy old mutt that looks slightly demented and has a penchant for smoked salmon bellinis, folks are not so welcoming.

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Sam

A couple of weeks ago, Sam announced he was moving out. Into a flat, in Queanbeyan, with his girlfriend. He was nervous about telling me, asked if I would ‘be ok’. Beautiful boy. I told him he had my blessing – totally normal thing to do. In fact, I am proud of him! Growing up, being independent, taking risks, giving things a go. I assured him, if things crap out, Giles and I will always be here.

I’ve had some furniture in storage for 5+ years, bought a second-hand fridge on gumtree for $130 (which has been sitting in my lounge for the past week). I hired a van for the day to shuffle 3-seater couch, boxes, tall boys, coffee table, dining table, chairs over to their new Love Nest. Sam’s girlfriend’s family have rallied and brought a stack of furniture and essentials (including a rubbish bin, a pie maker, a toilet brush). Giles and Kels have given them a washing machine, sandwich press, rice cooker and more. Moving house is a bitch and this move was no exception. Sam got in late from work on the Friday (after midnight), was up early, didn’t manage breakfast or lunch. Lifting furniture, the fridge, boxes and bags out to the van then up a flight of stairs was hot and exhausting. Late afternoon, we all peeled away. I slipped Sam a few $$ for takeaways then went home and cried my eyes out.

Radiation
Day One. Here we go again … back to the Canberra Region Cancer Centre. Have decided to skip the multilevel carpark this time and park across the road, less stress and the walk will do me good. Like the chemo ward, the radiation ward is a well-oiled machine. I’m greeted by Jess and given The Tour. My cubby, where my gown is kept, is no. 143. Strip down then wait until ‘Brindabella’ is free. Julia takes me through to a massive room with a massive machine. I hop up on the bed/ramp/slide and position my head, neck and arms into the ‘mould’ which was created for me during the assessment session. Julia is giving me a bank of instructions while Taylor edges me millimetre by millimetre into position – lining up the tattoos and marking me up with a sharpie. I can see my reflection in the machine above me (damn that muffin top). My arm is already going to sleep … and we’ve only just started. The setup takes about 10 minutes. It’s then time for them to leave the room. The machine starts to rotate around me, kind of creepy but not scary. Taylor then asks me to start The Breathing which means holding my breath in the green-zone on the screen for as long as I can (ideally 20+ seconds). The machine will automatically turn on when I’m in the zone and stop when I release my breath. The first few are ok, but the 4th, 5th are getting harder. I’m going to suggest they put a timer on so you can aim for a PB. After about 15 minutes, my robot friend has successfully administered the first dose of cancer-killing rays. No pain. Just massively uncomfortable on that plank with ‘Hal’ beaming down at me. Gown on, I’m good to go. “C u tomorrow!” Sure thing. Same time, same place, same channel.

I walk over to the car, feeling fine, no worries.

Someone once said be careful what you wish for: I asked for early morning appointments so I could get radiated then head into work. Most of my appointments are 8am – the second appointment of the day. Mmmm, going to have to be super-organised in the mornings now. No more ‘snooze’ button.

Late Additions
I am not looking forward to Christmas. No, I’m not a Grinch – I just desperately wanted to be well enough to join Simon, O & C in the UK for Christmas and the New Year. That’s not going to happen. They fly out on 15th December. I won’t see them for 4 weeks (cue World's Smallest Violin).

Sue and I have since caught up. Her surgery went well and she’s now back home in Goulburn with her menagerie.

My hair has grown a tiny bit since I started writing this post. I now have some baby bum fluff on the sides and back. The hair on the top is still coarse and wiry – not nice.

I drove a Tesla – it was ace.

I’ve missed so many October and November birthdays. Getting treatment for cancer is all consuming. It’s all me, me me. Sami, Alyse, Petra, Devina, Kath  …. I’m always late and apologising!

I got the NY Times Wordle in the first go (up there with a Yahtzee or a Royal Flush).

Is there any bottle of olive oil that does not leave an oily wet mark on the counter? For anyone who gets me on their (not so) secret santa list, I would love one of those little glass or stainless steel olive oil dispensers.

I got quite pissed at the Christmas Party and may have outstayed my welcome. Apologies to all. Great night though.

At the time of posting this, I have just returned from 2 nights in Queensland, visiting Tara, Lucy, Daisy and Max. Lucy went bananas when I arrived and didn’t leave my side for 48 hours. She had saved up a vet-visit for me (anal gland infection which was delightful). I travelled up on the Friday after my morning radiation treatment, was tired and felt very … odd. Have now recovered some energy – just in time to start it all again tomorrow. An update: the doctor said I am tolerating the radiation well so they are going to ‘boost’ the dose over the next two weeks. Going harder and faster means I will now finish nuclearfication on 16th December rather than 22nd December. Yay – I think???

Love yous all. Xxx