Trees, Sepsis, Hair loss

Friends! I have an update on the faux Christmas tree. Two months prior to Christmas the tree has been removed from the naughty corner, replaced by a non-descript pot-plant with glossy green leaves. The Orwellian in me wishes it to be an aspidistra, however, I really cannot be certain. I am unsure what the fake Christmas tree has done to redeem itself. Perhaps it is merely a ruse. Perhaps they will present the tree again in December in an attempt to fool us guests, pretend they have made a Yuletide effort when really they had forgotten it for ten or so months. However, I shall not be fooled by their guise, as I will still be here in December. I will endeavour to keep you updated on this faux tree’s fate. Until then we are left with this non-descript pot-plant, a pot-plant that is really too tall to be an aspidistra, destroying all irony I was intending.  Perhaps I am reading too much into this situation and the real reason the tree was removed is because they, whoever “they” are, read my blog. I mean, all the cool kids read it, right?

One Friday night recently, when the fake Christmas tree remained in a position familiar to me, I had a rather memorable dream. It did not involve the tree. The slumber on the particular Friday night in question was induced by a magic pill. I had experienced consecutive sleepless nights and in order to prevent a deformed second head from rising through my neck bling, roaring with a bitchiness only ever induced by lack of sleep, yes to prevent this highly probable event from occurring, a magic pill was consumed and thus the dream followed. I will warn you now; the dream is not that spectacular. There will be no civil rights movements, or anything of the like, resulting from its documentation. It was merely a vivid dream. A vivid dream I intend on telling you about. Eventually. Just a bit of background information before we begin: when I rigor I am usually running a temperature so although I feel extremely cold I am actually burning up. This means I am usually prevented by the powers-that-be from warming myself up. No hats nor blankets nor hot water bottles, indeed sometimes they place cold flannels and iced water on me instead despite my persistent protestations.

So it was a Friday night (I think), I was drugged (voluntarily), I was asleep (possibly), and I began to feel cold. In my dream I was cold, shivering in fact. Now Dream Liv is a pretty smart cookie. She realised that those surrounding her, which at this point in the dream were her husband and a bunch of nurses, would not take kindly to this shivering. She knew these individuals would try to admit her into hospital, a place that neither her, nor Reality Liv, wished to be. Dream Liv needed to conceal this shivering and hopefully warm herself up in the process. What better way to do that than to dive further under the covers? This would provide warmth and was not at all conspicuous. Dream Liv even congratulated herself, cackling away at her perceived ingenuity. The nurses with needles could not find her, the ambulance had crashed, her husband was talking to her, louder, louder, shaking her; oh crap Reality Mike had cottoned on to Dream Liv’s antics and was attempting to summon Reality Liv who, in a Zopiclone laced fever, simply ceased to exist. “This thing [thermometer] is beeping at me!” cries Limbo Liv “What is it doing?” Get the beeping away from me!” Reality Liv eventually emerged around 10am, frozen in a pool of her own sweat. This was the third time I had had a hospital dream. The previous two had landed me in hospital. My sub-conscience was more alert than I.

I had not experienced a rigor episode since I began chemo so this incident took us a little by surprise. My head felt over-inflated all day, as if all my blood had been forced into my brain and I now resembled Mr Mackie. Further rigors, persistently raised temperatures (the thermometer and I had reconciled), and numerous nonsensical statements lead to a Saturday night ED visit. I knew it was a Saturday, but had forgotten that Friday was the day prior. I kept informing the clinicians of my blood results “from Friday”. I felt as though a week had passed when it had merely been 36 hours. Upon my VIP entry to ED my heart rate was 165, temperature 39°C, and all my lymph nodes were inflamed. My spleen hurt. My spleen and I have had a decent relationship these past few months and I was upset that this relationship was once again strained.

Ultimately, I was petrified that the fevers, rigors, sweats, nodes, and delirium were due to my disease. I had felt far too well post chemo, it was quite obvious to Fever Liv that the chemo had not worked at all. My lymphatic tumours were fighting back, punishing me for my continuing insubordination. But apparently no, these fevers differed from my disease fevers, I actually had neutropenic sepsis. I am unsure how many people are relieved to hear such news but I can tell you that I certainly was. Prompt IV antibiotics and fluids reduced my confusion but did not induce any sleep; I spent the night in my private ED room listening to the fallout from a high school ball. Sunday morning, mid-rigor with my face burning, nausea overcame me. It was not pretty. I vomited through my hands, on myself, on my bedding; vomit smeared across my shivering face I was desperate for a receptacle to make the situation a little more dignified. Eventually I spied my water jug and proceeded to fill it with my stomach contents, my teeth chattering throughout. To be quite honest I felt dreadful. Utterly dreadful. Upon discharge, some five nights later, I read that I was deemed ‘well’ in ED. If I was well, I do not ever wish to be deemed unwell. My septic episode was mild in comparison to the many others on the ward combating the same thing.

Scaring all the adults with my neck bling

I do not have that much hair anymore. The day I was discharged I spent $40 on a bad haircut. Two days later my hair started falling out. In clumps. One morning I woke to find a substantial volume beside me on my pillow. In the twisted irony that currently seems to be dominating my life, it appears I am allergic to my own hair. Not anaphylactic allergic, more rub-your-eyes-constantly allergic. Irritated is probably a more apt word. The next morning left me looking like a soccer ball that had been left outside the entire winter; dirty and slightly waterlogged, the leather sagging to leave distorted white and black patches. I had lost a third of my hair in one day; a number one was necessary. The day Mike shaved my head I was required to shave my legs, but not for the same reason. And I still have eyebrows as bushy as Bert’s. Eyebrows appear to be stubborn beasts. How do I look now? Well, now I look like a cancer patient who has recently lost all their hair, but none of their eyebrows. I look silly really, very silly indeed. In fact, I have taken a break from practising head scarf knots in order to write this. After two hours of practice, frustration, and tantrums, I think I will just opt for a skullcap. Finesse is not really in my repertoire.

So my hair fell completely over three days. With ABVD it took six months and even then I was never entirely bald. I caught an unknown infection that hospitalised me after my first cycle of ICE, yet my neutrophils were only low for a few days and I had been vigilant with diet and hygiene. With ABVD I was a little more adventurous, had lower counts for longer, yet I was never unwell. On the plus side, my mouth is ulcer free and my throat is still co-operating. Other than the hair loss and the sepsis, I have had few side effects. Except, of course, fatigue. I have instigated pre-bedtime naps, on top of my post-breakfast naps and my siestas. Yes, the fatigue is strong in this one.