Do you have any spare change?
I really really wanted this post to be positive. Despite having days in the doldrums, I’ve so far been able to keep most of the seriously negative energy at bay. I have fabulous people in my (virtual) corner who I am grateful for every day. I have a body which will recover well if I follow the treatment. I’ve generally followed a good diet. I’ve had a few drinks here and there, I haven’t abused prescription meds. I’ve continued to work as much as I can (because I want to, because I enjoy it). I have an amazing employer and work colleagues who support me and make me laugh. My dog is settled in The Best temporary home a dog could possibly wish for (in fact, better than you could ever imagine!) My son has been super cool, helpful and understanding – going above and beyond what a 20-year old lad should be expected to do.
There are so many warm fuzzies out there.
But the feelings of sadness and feeling ripped-off still slide in. I’m not a strong person. Some people think I am, say I am but I’m not. I’m incredibly fragile. I feel deeply. I can’t write this off as being a statistic or simply being unlucky. I do feel ripped-off and I do feel sad. Our bodies are amazing machines but they are organic, they are mortal, they are finite. Spoiler alert: we will get sick, we will die. I haven’t had my epiphany yet – and I hope I don’t.
I leapt back into work on my return. Was lovely to see everyone, I was greatly cheered by their warmth. That said, Monday and Tuesday were hard. My body was shaky and tired. The last round of chemo has kicked me a little closer to the curb. I find it hard walking up a flight of steps. Cleaning the bathroom is exhausting. I don’t feel like eating much. When I do, I end up eating crap. Apparently, my phosphate levels are way down and I need to eat phosphorus-rich foods.
Never a day goes by now when I don’t feel ill. Nausea and weakness are the worst. I have waves of pain through my bones, experience breathlessness, sleeplessness. I lose my sense of taste, feel like I’ve eaten a box of chalk (and the duster). My scalp breaks out in pimples, my digestive system is erratic. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. Every. Fucking. Day.
I made it through Monday and cooked up a dodgy burrito for dinner. Tuesday I couldn’t even even so I rang for a Dominos. Was sprung by Sam who walked through the door as I was shoving a slice of pepperoni in my mouth. The pizza was disappointing and I felt guilty I’d resorted to (another) high calorie, crap meal.
I average about 3 hours sleep a night. I watch back to back movies and read books.
Wednesday, 19 October 2022
Hospital Day!
Problem: I had a slight recollection my next appointment was on the 19th but I couldn’t remember where or when. I am usually careful and thorough with my notes and planning and appointments but this one just …. fell by the wayside. I decided to turn up at the gyne outpatient ward at 8:30am and ask some very nice admin person to help me. That nice person ended up being Jamie who tapped away efficiently then told me I was due at 9am and the waiting room was right next door. Phew! Not so daffy after-all. I thanked him profusely then ducked off to get a coffee. This was the appointment to discuss removal of the evil IUD. Denise, the nurse, was lovely. The doctor was somewhat … lack lustre. He sighed. Asked if I had the results of the ultrasound. Nope. Thought your doctors would talk to my doctors to get that. Sigh. He sends Denise off to source it. Waiting waiting. Ultrasound found. After more minutes of weird silence he announces the Merina is in-situ and in the right place. Would it be ok if he attempted to pull it out now? I am enthusiastic as I want it out asap and do not want to go through any further medical procedures than aren’t necessary
Here we go folks.
Men, you can take a comfort break now if you wish.
Trousers off, arse on the edge of the chair, spread those legs (while a man you’ve never met, dives into your fanny with various implements). Oh the indignity. Again, my cervix knows better than to let just anyone in. In fact, it is worryingly closed. Later I reflect on this which brings back incredibly painful memories of Sam’s birth. It is apparent my cervix would never have been able to dilate to the degree needed to deliver him. Sam was delivered by emergency C-section after many many hours (and shift changes). Less than 100 years ago, it is likely one or both or us would have died.
Right now, the doctor is using a long cotton bud to ‘tickle’ the cervix. I liken it to a sea anemone which the nurse finds funny. They then try a little brush. And then, it starts to hurt. A lot. Nope. There will be no extraction today. There are now two options: extract it with no anaesthetic, just a local analgesic or …. extract it, in theatre, full-on, out-for-the-count. He recommends the second as he thinks it will be no small feat getting that little fucker out.
So I’m going to have a camera sent up my vag then they’ll hopefully find the thread and pull it out. I’ve been told, the ultrasound is indicative only. Worst case scenario, they find the Merina has moved and embedded itself into the uterus. If this is the case, it will require keyhole surgery. I am thrilled and excited by all these possibilities. Not to mention the risk of anaesthetic, infection etc. Imagine, after all this, succumbing to an infection because of an IUD???!!!
The nurse tells me I will bleed, gives me a sanitary pad. I get dressed, complete the 12 pages of paperwork then start the lonely walk back through the hospital corridors to the carpark.
I feel shaky and confused. I start to cry. I have my mask on which somewhat hides the tears that are spilling down uncontrollably. I’m lost and can’t find my way to the carpark. I keep hitting dead ends and locked doors. Finally a nice staff member finds me and guides me to the lifts. I find my way to the Cancer Centre which I know, grab something to eat and sit out in the sun to take stock.
I’m not sure why I lost it that day – of all days. It was just an overpowering sense of helplessness and sadness.
After the appointment, I didn’t feel like people-ing. Unfortunately 2 people decided to cross my path after that episode. The first was a cashed-up boy racer in this white Mercedes, hanging his tattooed arm out the window listening to some dead black rapper. The little prick decided it would help speed-up-the-proceedings by beeping at the snarl of ten cars in front of him (remember this is the world’s worst carpark). As I walked past him to my car, he tooted. Twice. I said “are you right??” He replied “mind your own business” – which I actually thought was quite a good response. The conversation went downhill from there. I left him buried in traffic, walked calmy to my car, departed the carpark. Midday was looming and I had to get to work. My face was a mess. I needed to pick up a script from the pharmacy in Kingston. Drove. Parked. Mask on. Tears still tipping down.
And then it happened. A woman, with her shopping trundle, perhaps not as flush as me, perhaps somewhat marginalised, perhaps unwell - made the mistake of asking: “do you have any spare change?” My head nearly exploded. The words that came out, unnecessarily loudly, were “NO, I DO NOT!!!!!!” I walked on. I recall a small voice behind me saying ‘sorry’. Later the guilt kicked in but at that moment, I seriously couldn’t be arsed. My friends have since counselled me that it was perhaps not a bad thing for the woman to be reminded other people have bad days too.
I picked up my script, popped on a brush of makeup and headed into work.
I made a curry for dinner which Sam and I ate together on the couch watching 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown.
