Chemo kicks my ass...... again.

Oh for retribution! All it took was a mildly (I’m flattering myself) conceited blog post for the powers that be in chemo land, who seem to take great offence in such matters, to send me a dose that knocked me to my knees. I am far from my best as I write this now. These words are effectively my brain splattered on a page, but my brain is mushy and seems to be lacking in all filtering capabilities today. I apologise if what follows amounts to utter gibberish. Given my recent reading material, I also run the risk of breaking into verse. Again, I apologise if this so happens to be the case. A poet I am not. The musically inclined among you may wish to put a little tune behind it. Chemo-brain Liv; the next Tommy Ill. World famous in Wellington.

I will write, right here, a particular thought that went through my mind, this time two days ago. That thought was “Holy Monkey Jesus, what the hell is happening?!” Quite a blasphemous thought, I know, but I am sure any devouts out there will forgive. That is what Jesus would do.

Have the NHS banned selfie sticks in yet? 

The lead up to the chemo session was far from ideal; disturbed slumber a night or two or three prior, and a spontaneous decision to walk to the hospital in the midday Brighton sun. A spontaneous walk that left me embarrassingly breathless. I slumped into my oversized pink chemo chair exhausted. The session itself was uneventful. I didn’t want to be there, but then I never do. An obligatory chunder halfway through made me feel right at ease. I always want to get home as quickly as possible, this time that desire was super enhanced. But the session took four hours, for no reason I can really put my finger on. At some point during the chemo, I started feeling cold. This does tend to happen; the chemo is kept at room temperature, 10°C or so cooler than my body, so my chemo arm gets a little cold and a little puffy. But this, this was entire body goosebumps cold. As we left the day unit, the gentle breeze channeling between the nine storey hospital buildings propelled me into uncontrollable shivering with intermittent bouts of yawning. Halfway through our upstairs bus journey home, the chattering tremors were nearing convulsions. Mike wrapped a scarf around me. I caught a glimpse of my reflection as the bus passed a black building. My lips chapped and white; my face a bizarre mix - tanned yet grey; my hair dishevelled, the result of my constant urge to run my hands through it and watch the thick strands float to the floor. Our stop arrived and I shakily made my way off the bus, tripping over a ruck sack somebody had generously positioned at the bottom of the stairs. I may have tripped even if I’d had my regular Oscar Wilde wit about me. This particular Tuesday I had no chance of maintaining my balance.

Once home I was under the covers, woollen hat, dressing gown, blanket, two pairs of socks and a wheat bag all in tow. I still couldn’t feel my fingers; should I try some gloves too? My teeth were a chat, chat, chattering, occasionally interrupted by giant animal yawns. A bath! A bath will warm me up. My PICC line cannot be submerged but the rest of my body can, so I lie with my arm in the air like a faulty periscope and my face peering out through the bubbles. I am a new type of camouflaged bubble submarine, although not a very good one as I am still shivering and chattering like an addict in withdrawals. Eventually I decide the bubble bath will also be a failure. I emerge, trembling, with an urgent desire vomit. Is anywhere in reach? The sink! The sink will do, Mike rushes in; “The toilet you fool!” Too late, the sink is in use, when I catch a break I’ll turn to the loo. And when I turn I expel my guts in a way I haven’t for a while, some may say Dundas Street keg party style.

Finally the vomiting ceases. I crawl back into bed, still shivering and wearing only a towel. Totally attractive. I clamber into some pyjamas; they could be on inside out and backwards for all I am aware, and to be honest I really don’t care. Back under the duvet I dive. Paracetamol and anti-nauseas are greedily consumed. Better late than never. Toes are tingling to my knees; my fingers decide to join the fun, then my lips, then my tongue. The dacarbazine pain is back again, although not as severe, it is still discomforting. I lay on my side, emitting moans and the occasional blasphemous oath, much like the one I have already mentioned.

And then things get dark. This image of a pathetic ball of self-pity I am trying to conjure up for you, it was just a phase, but at the time it was difficult to believe such a statement. Since my diagnosis my dreams, or more my nightmares, have changed substantially in content. Maybe I should write a letter to the broadcasters in this head of mine to complain. No longer do my scary dreams entail chasing and killing and international crazy men of mystery, no, my nightmares, or nightmare to be accurate, are (is?) almost exclusively about me losing my wedding rings. I wake regularly to check they are still on my ring finger. Some nights I tape them up so they cannot move, which is poor exposure therapy I know. I wonder if death no longer scares me as much as it used to, and if maybe my biggest fear is losing or breaking the relationships with those near to me. Especially with Mike, who is my everything. Maybe I, as always, am reading far too much into it all. Anyway, this is a bit of a preamble into what I was thinking as I was laying under the covers with my wheat bag, moaning and cursing. I then understood why people die. Not like they choose to die so to speak, but maybe why they surrender to their body. That particular point in time was the worst I had physically felt in my entire life, and the thought that this feeling could be more than short lived did make me wish for death then and there, yet I was always safe in the knowledge that the feeling would pass, and I would feel better at morning’s break, but at the time morning seemed like a distant unfocused spot on the horizon. The sun hadn't even set yet.

Eventually the paracetamol kicked in and the shivers ceased. My temperature crept higher and higher until I finally resigned myself to the knowledge that moving was necessary and, using my less than precise thermometer, measured my temperature at a warmish 39.2°C. Out from the covers I slide, now in an attempt to cool off. Antihistamine is consumed to address the tingles and hopefully induce some sleep. Sleep did eventually prevail. Mike is also feeling a little under the weather; the bedroom in the morning was literally hot and sweaty, but not in a Lady Chatterley way. And when morning did come, the feeling of doom had passed, and it was merely fatigue, a little pain and a splash of nausea that remained.

So today. Thursday. I had, collectively, about two hours sleep last night. There were restless legs, festering rage, overwhelming tears, but very little sleep. The coffee I poured from the percolator this morning ran clear, apparently putting coffee grounds into the percolator is a useful thing to do. Solid evidence for my desperate need of caffeine. I did make it to work, shrouded in fatigue and negativity, and thank the colleagues who both tolerated my crankiness and lifted me out of my hole. My next posts and sessions, I have now learnt, I shan’t be taken so arrogantly.