Neurotic ramblings and a startling blog discovery

At some point throughout this pesky illness of mine, I have become rather neurotic. To those of you who have slyly raised an eyebrow or two in a somewhat sarcastic and mildly patronising manner I respond – yes, well I know I have always been a little neurotic, but now, I assure you, it is far worse. I imagine I am not the only cancer patient with this problem. Prior to starting chemo we are told of all the possible side effects, in triplicate, so our mind stays vigilant when assessing bodily qualms. In my case I suspect there is also an element of control; mind over body. The conscious has no real control over the body, but it enjoys thinking it does. It is the mother of son who has recently left the family home; she would like to think she is still in charge but realistically the young man does as he chooses. He will check in sporadically, usually only when something is amiss. And so when my body, adolescent in metaphor only, begins to throw ailments in the direction of my conscious they tend to suffer an in depth analysis; the type usually reserved by media outlets for election night exit polls. I say mind vs body, but I think I am a little wrong here. It is almost as if there are three entities, mind on one side, body on the other, then, in the middle, sits Liv, trying to mediate the eternal grievances between the two. I am the Poland of my entire entity, a battleground between two longstanding enemies, divided up by outside parties, oppressed and largely forgotten about. 

Saturday evening was particularly concerning. With the longer days, the crepuscular light of the sky made it seem earlier than it was. The neighbour’s petite tabby cat had been coming and going throughout the day so the door to the balcony was still ajar. I was getting cold. My teeth were threatening to chatter - I could feel my jaw seize in anticipation - and my few remaining strands of arm hair were standing firm and tall in their follicles.  It took the imminent teeth chatter and a slight shiver for me to realise I was cold but I noticed, strangely, that my upper thighs were both quite warm. Unknowingly, almost innately, I had been scratching away at them for a good thirty minutes. When it came to bath time, necessary to warm me up, my thighs were red, a little hot to touch and extremely itchy. I caught myself indignantly frowning at this new forming woe whilst still a scratch, scratch, scratching. The whiteness of my British winter thighs emphasised the developing flaming red pattern, making it appear like a little flashing red emergency light. In the depths of my ever exceeding gut, a little seed of anxiety was sown. What is this? Is this a GCSF reaction? A reaction to chemotherapy? Bilateral necrotising fasciitis of the thigh? Is this how DVTs clinically manifest themselves? That must be it, I haven’t exactly been physically active these last few months….  After some gentle passive-aggressive prodding and then some aggressive passive-aggressive prodding, I finally got Mike to concede that yes, this was a little odd and we’ll keep an eye on it. Score one to Liv.

A visit from our neighbour

The following morning I observed two tiny itchy bites, one on each leg. Yup, all that voluminous worry for what were small, not even mosquito, but sandfly bites. They were gone come Sunday evening. I am, at least, a little thankful that I did not immediately consult Google and add to my list of unsubstantiated concerns. I have given myself a three day threshold for unexplained biological presentations. If a complaint persists for longer than three days, it is allowed its very own Google hit. To be honest, the three day rule probably ought to be extended as symptoms seem to resolve themselves the day or so after their said Googling. But I imagine the physical act is for reassurance value only. I need to keep that conscious of mine on side.

One particular complaint that did manage to breech the three day annoyance limit, lead to a rather startling discovery. I have been getting these odd bumps on my head. They are a little itchy and tender to touch. They are most certainly not itchy bites, in case you were wondering. My hair, which once resembled the unruly mane of a lion, is still thick enough so that, with a little effort, minimal really, these bumps are not visible to any chance onlooker. But they are bothersome and troubling so I asked Google, in computer speak, “Scalp lumps pain itchy lymphoma”.  As I slowly tweaked the search terms, a persisting site kept popping up, near the top of the results list. A pain in the Neck. Maybe this individual has suffered a similar issue and has some advice for me. Click. Oh it looks like a blog. I will skim through it to see if it contains anything relevant, I mean, who wants to read an entire cancer blog? I started skim, skim, skimming; Oh Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, skim, skim, skim, lingering look, small snort at a humours sentence, complete paragraph read, gentle nodding of the head in understanding, end of post, click, next post, engrossed reading, thrusting out of the bottom lip in the way only possible when you know you have been thoroughly outdone. This blog was good; far better than I could ever dream of writing. I started reading some excerpts aloud to Mike. Evidentially he could also relate to the content – so it turns out it is not socially acceptable to palpate your lymph nodes in public, other halves do not appreciate such behaviour. Woops, my bad.  

Irritation and despondency, both quick to rise and slow to dissipate given my current state of mind and body, were rapidly on the ascent.  A McEnroe tantrum was brewing. Writing has been my one outlet these past few months, and here was someone else, an individual unknown to I, summarising exactly how I have been feeling, only they were doing it in a finer manner. I was in full on blog binge mode by now, enthralled in her charming anecdotes, her positive yet realistic outlook and her sense of humour. And there it was, two little words “Freelance writer”. Liv exhales in relief. The author’s occupation, for some ridiculous and inexplicable reason, made me feel better. There was no violent slamming of tennis rackets, no verbal abuse hurtled at umpires, no Woolf-Mansfield jealousy, there was just me, reading a stranger’s blog, at peace with the knowledge that I would never be as good as her.  

I have attempted to read other cancer blogs prior to finding A Pain in the Neck, but usually I only achieved a mere skim, skim, skimming. She has been through significantly more than I, yet she seems considerably more mindful about her experiences. When I am in a fit of frustration, blabbering on about cranial painters and their daubing of my thoughts, questioning my mortality and almost branching into the study of eschatology, she calmly and simply summarises these low points into passages and situations that I cannot convey in words. I caught myself, quite often, thinking “that is what I was trying to say!” For those of you struggling with the morbidity of some of my thoughts, her entries at similar points during our treatment regime may make things a little clearer.   

And what of my head bumps? Well, she doesn’t appear to have experienced those, but there are numerous breast cancer forums addressing the subject. The most likely cause is that my hair regrowth, in its fair fine down like way, is inflaming my fragile follicles. That ah, that was more Dr Seuss than I had anticipated. Sorry about that. I was trying to be poetic. I think I will leave it though, oh and don’t feel bad about laughing at me, the sentence was utterly absurd, even for a cancer patient.

It is with a degree of hesitation that I start this paragraph. I have a fragmented continuation of thought, as always, on the matter regarding Googling of troubles. But as it appears I am of jovial disposition today (however it has taken me five hours to realise this) and as the thought pattern involves my psyche, I think I may postpone my intended deluge of incoherent thoughts for another day. The sun is shining, the balcony is beckoning and DH Lawrence is calling.