This weekend I felt like a normal person

The title of the post isn’t exactly accurate. As I sit now and type up my scribbles, it has become apparent that it is highly unlikely I will change out of my pyjamas today. The smears under my eyes are far darker and lower than my regular bags - a paternal gift, a definitive genetic link to my sisters and all of my Johnson cousins. Not a single one of us has escaped the ‘Johnson eyes’, although I think they’re from my Grandmother, so technically they are ‘Grieg eyes’. Anyway enough genealogy, the point I am trying to make is that I am knackered, and have just sent Mike (my husband can be named now) out for cake. I hope he brings back enough.

But this dilapidated state was totally worth it! I am happy to feel this shattered for the degree of normality that Friday and Saturday offered. My still disturbed sleep patterns resulted in far too much self-pity on Monday and Tuesday. By Wednesday, I had decided I really needed to get out of the flat. I’d had absolutely no sleep the night prior and vowed not to nap during the day in hope that it would lead to some sort of slumber in the evening. In order to do that, I needed coffee. My new mission in life is to find the best long black in Brighton (for those interested it is currently Mr Wolfe, with Nowhere Man a close second). Good British coffee is an exception, most certainly not a rule. Quite often I can’t even order a long black, I get some sort of washed out Americano mud water. There was a Guardian article blaming Antipodeans for ruining British coffee; there was nothing to ruin! God forbid there be any flavour. Maybe that is one for the Farage campaign; "immigrants ruin British coffee!" 

Anyhow, Wednesday this coffee quest started. Thursday, it required a three mile walk. Friday, my legs felt as though I had run a half marathon the day prior, when really it was merely a 4 kilometre shuffle, frequently interrupted by periods of rest. But, excitingly, on Friday I was going to Worthing for dinner at a friend’s place and into work to say hello to my colleagues, the colleagues I had so rudely abandoned over the Christmas period. I’d bought cakes to try and compensate for being so discourteous. My legs continued to remind me of my 21km achievement the day prior (slightly Quixotic), but it was an ache to be proud of and I felt enthusiastic about everything. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. The pallor I had developed since I last donned any makeup led to more of a Glaswegian shade than I had anticipated, but some colour is better than no colour, so I went with it. 

The route to the train station is extended to include what turns out to be a disappointing long black. I am feeling energetic so I can handle a small tiki-tour (yes, I have just Kiwi’d out on you). In my excitement I have started out too fast and am fatiguing too early. [Hmm, this sounds like it should be a Petite Feet post, although my distances may be marginally shorter.] Subsequently, I arrive at Brighton station exhausted. I deliberately decide to take the later and longer train in order to have more time sitting down. The heavy breathing I am displaying implies I have made one of those infamous sprints towards a departing train. This is rather embarrassing as I am now slumped on a seat in the carriage, 15 minutes prior to the scheduled departure. I am receiving a few sideways glances “Why is that orange hued girl panting on a train that is not even remotely close to leaving? Also, why has she scattered all her possessions throughout the carriage?” I am wondering if I need a TFL ‘cancer on board’ badge. Do they make those? I really hope they don’t.

The ten minute walk at from Worthing station to my workplace is prolonged due to my deliberately slow pace. Elderly people are passing me.  Elderly people with canes. The three bottles of wine (they’re not for me!) in a carrier bag are making my left shoulder sore. I develop a stoop. My teeth are chattering. I resemble the female offspring of Quasimodo and an oompa-loompa, without the psychological issues. Or the chocolate. Or the musical talent. You’ve got to admit, the said offspring should have some sort of musical talent. At least a sense of rhythm, a knowledge of bells, maybe even a nice signing voice. I have none of those. Another deviation from the story. Sorry.

I pause to compose myself at the top of the stairs before making my grand entrance into work. This pause lasts five minutes. My lungs are burning and I now have the shakes. I give up on composure and wander into the lab. Physically, I feel below average and I have received a minor sermon from my very good friend who, although two years my junior sometimes adopts a tone similar to that of my mother, on overdoing it and how I shouldn’t be so stubborn and should be accepting rides etcetera, etcetera. So physically crap, but emotionally I am on top of the world. Social interaction! Lecture me as much as you like, just keep talking! My work mates are fantastic. They let me rant on and on about the state of the world, UKIP, Israel, books I want to read, books I have read, books they should read and some rambles about genetic feedback cycles and possible hypothesis on the cellular cause of Hodgkin’s lymphoma. They give me some stick, I give some back. Someone gives me some stick and I get a bleeding nose halfway through it. Perfect timing, I’m a cancer patient you know, you can’t be too mean to me. I even glance down the microscope at a blood film. The patient obviously has lymphoma; every sample I see will have lymphoma from now on. I am smiling from ear to ear, I have never been so happy to be at work. I feel normal! I feel better than I have in months! My colleagues present me with a gift they’ve all pitched in for. Turns out they know me quite well.

Beer and cheese? I love you guys!

The evening that followed was perfect. I’d managed to get the last bottle of a Central Otago Pinot Noir from our local bottle shop (ok so maybe one of the bottles was for me) and it was exactly what I wanted; although not an overly affordable craving to maintain. The food, the company, the setting; who could have thought it would make one feel so happy. I completely forgot I was unwell. Mike and I lost track of time and missed the last train home. Exactly like old times. I wanted to give my friend a hug before I left, but we all know how awkwardly that would have turned out. I wouldn't have wanted to ruin a good evening. I like to blame my nationality, and my profession, for my awkwardness.

The following morning I was still flying high. Friends were coming down from London for a catchup. My regular ‘I’ve just walked a mile so now I need to shake uncontrollably’ tremors accompanied me in greeting them at the station, and I had to reassure them that although I look pathetic, I really feel quite well. It’s hard to do this when you can’t physically drink your coffee (a substandard and far too hot long black) without spilling it. Once I had assured them I didn’t need a wheelchair, Mike and I had another fantastic day showing friends around Brighton. Coffee, beer, Mexican, a margarita, sage tea…. Just a normal Saturday. Even a trip to the appalling-yet-must-see penny arcade on the pier (let’s sell gambling to kids) had a rosy glow. Nattering away to each other, politely and impolitely being moved on from each place as our drinks were long dry, I had again, forgotten that I was unwell.

Even today as I type this (poorly I know) I don’t feel sick. I feel tired, and I have a mild discomfort in my abdomen, but I don’t feel unwell. And the chocolate éclair Mike got me from the dangerously near French bakery has improved my lethargy greatly. I let him have one bite. So generous of me. Emotionally, I am prepared for my second dose of AVBD chemo tomorrow, and physically I will be fine as I have saved my last magic pill to ensure I sleep tonight.