I am about to throw a tantrum

I warn you, this will most likely turn into a giant ranting moan. One long list of complaints, confirming that I have resided in England long enough to conform to the stereotype.  Ah, some casual racism to start the whole thing off; it is mere banter my English friends! I have only met one or two that fall into the alluded classification, and I choose not to associate myself with that minority. Hmmm, shall continue in an attempt to dig myself out of this hole? Do you have the time, to listen to me whine? (I am sorry, the song just came on my playlist and the timing was too perfect not to include.)

Where to start? Well, I can tell you that I am nearly ready to tag out. I have had enough and do not care to participate any longer. My team has fallen apart; the key players are starting to act as individuals, maybe in the hope of glory, who knows? I have grown tired of the prolonged anatomy lesson my spleen is giving; I have never enjoyed anatomy anyway, this is the reason I suck at it. Physiology, that is fine! Do your thing little organ, I do not need regular updates. Yes, I know you are underrated but you’ve always been one of my favourites, so there is no need to persist with this pain. I think it is ignoring me. I should probably be thankful it doesn’t have a twitter account. Incidentally, an enlarged spleen is called splenomegaly which, let’s be honest, is a fantastic word.

Directly opposite my spleen, a lymph node is causing far too much grief. I know it is enlarged, but the pain it is instigating is disproportional. I am so disgusted with this particular node, which probably has a biological name but I refuse to memorise it as a display of my indignation, I am not talking to it. So, no lecture for that nameless node. Having these two complaints leads to bilateral discomfort under the edge of my ribcage. [Bilateral is probably the wrong word as I only have one ribcage, but I can’t think of a better one so we’re just going to have to deal with bilateral. It describes what I mean.] This discomfort makes sitting, currently my most prevalent pastime, unenjoyable. My already pronounced slouch tends to accentuate, causing my biopsy node (either subclavicular or lateral – I have already explained my weakness in anatomy) to hit my collarbone and pipe in with its own qualms. I am sorry my friend! I know you have been through a lot, but please, just because the others are getting attention does not mean you are allowed to interrupt. Honestly, they’re worse than children! Currently, my favourite tumour resides in one of my intercostal nodes (lower abdominal). It is the one that is reaching into my bone marrow and my bowel (yup, stage IV folks). It is my preferred because, although a delinquent in the past causing the most damage and the most pain, it is now causing far less than it was and far less than the aforementioned parties. Silently doing destruction behind my back. Or into it.

Above my thoracic (an important distinction) diaphragm, my chest hurts in a multitude of different ways; more ways than ever I imagined it could. Thanks to the GCSF, there is a crushing aching sensation in my sternum. Thanks to the chemo, there is a course raw feeling in the mucous membranes lining my oesophagus. Thanks to the small (very small) masses in my lung, it burns to breathe. Thanks to something I can’t explain, the back of my throat aches, as if I am perpetually on the verge of a cold. I have ulcers on the inner of my bottom lip, and a cold sore is forming on the outer. I was offered a choice of mouthwash flavour; original or mint. I replied that it didn’t matter. It totally matters!!! Original has the taste of what I imagine most industrial chemicals taste like with a splash of aniseed. The bitterness lingers throughout my mouth for hours afterwards, marring any food I try. I will concede that the wash does seem to be working on the ulcers though.

The dacarbazine is causing some serious vein irritation. The entire length of my arm burns, culminating to a persistent stabbing ache on my inner arm at my elbow joint, or at any point I happen to put a little pressure on. This leads to gammy arm holding, which in turn leads to painful arm muscles. The bruises I obtained during the great cannula experiment ten days ago are still prominent. My skin is blotchy, my cheeks puffy, my hair thinning, yet, amazingly, still able to display uncontrollable volume. Due to the increasingly not-so-magic-so-therefore-rationed sleeping pills, my balance, which has never been a strong point, is fairly unsteady. My body moves but my legs lag behind. Cue some very close calls, a few unnecessary bruises and some gallant saves by Mike. Luckily, I am now light enough for him to catch me.

I am about to continue my complaining, but I am going to include a symptom that, until now, I have refrained from mentioning. If you truly do want to know the depth of my despair, I feel this aspect really brings out the sorrow. So, although I will use as many euphemisms as possible, anyone who wishes to avoid reading about my lower intestinal complaints, ought to skip ahead to the next paragraph.  Here goes. Argh, the anti-nauseas, the not-so-effective painkillers, the not-so-magicsleeping pills, they all accumulate to form a rather uncomfortable situation. I finally understand why people take reading material to the restroom. Thankfully, I am presently reading Don Quixote; 768 pages should be long enough. I know I am in a pretty dark place when a bowel movement is not only my biggest achievement of the day, but one I am excited about. Is it appropriate to have a desire to phone your husband after going to the bathroom Randy Marsh style? Or to fist punch the air and dance through the flat celebrating your success? Don’t worry, I have only done the latter. The doctors can’t prescribe a prolonged course of laxatives because you tend to become reliant on them. I am fairly certain there isn’t a support group for that dependency.

My attempt to make this post more positive

Welcome back to any readers who avoided that last paragraph. Be rest assured that whilst you were away, the sunset over the terraced houses and the British Channel illuminated the charcoal clouds with warm pink and auburn hues, however the photograph I captured through the grubby jammed window of our top floor flat just dose not do the beauty justice. [This is what happens if you avoid toilet humour. You get crap.] I would like to give a shout out to my liver which, despite being picked on by its neighbour, is behaving enzyme wise; my kidneys - both are doing standout job filtering all the cytotoxins pumping through my veins; my pancreas - because I don’t want to piss that beast off, and finally to ya’ll out there; writing this has greatly reduced my frustration, meaning my lovely, amazing, caring, stunningly handsome husband will receive a significantly scaled down whinge we he arrives home.